дьявол-мужчина
by BrochanInWords
Summary: When Sam was thirteen, he was kidnapped. Seven years later John has died and Dean is on his last hunt, unaware that his sibling is in the very same town. What happened to him the last few years?
1. Chapter 1

**To be perfectly honest, I have no idea how long this is going to be... I have some idea of where I want to go with it, but, I'm wondering how well I'll be able to do that. I guess we'll see? At any rate, thank you for checking out my story! I really hope you like it. Have any suggestions?**

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"Here."

Sam reached out, catching the Gatorade bottle with both hands. He set it beside himself on the ugly, puke-resembling carpeted floor. The motel was quiet, for the most part, except their neighbor's bathroom was just on the other side of their room's flimsy wall, and it sounded as if too many bean burritos had been had all around. Sam let his head thump back against the bed's wooden frame. His usually smooth light brown hair was in disarray and red rings circled his eyes, hazels that had lost their spark over the duration of the bug he had caught. Only two days ago all had been well, John had been out of town on a hunt, Dean had been uncharacteristically pleasant, and Sam's teachers hadn't been threatening to call CPS. Which, that had been happening often, ever since the young teen had started hunting. So yes, things had been going well. Until he woke up with a fever at two in the morning, and was throwing up by three.

That had put a damper on Dean's mood, too. He'd fallen behind in school, and their father was on his way back, saying they were ready to hightail it out of Wisconsin. Sam sighed, and suddenly regretting doing so as his stomach roiled, threatening to send what little dinner he had eaten back up in a tsunami. The thirteen-year old groaned at the mental image (Or the feeling, but probably both) and clapped a hand over his eyes. "I hate my life."

There was suddenly a flurry of motion beside him, but he didn't open his eyes to investigate. He already knew who it was, and what they were doing, and why. Dean's hand gripped his bent knee and a shoulder rubbed up against his as someone sat beside him on the floor, back also leaning against the rickety bed. "Don't be a princess, Sam – drink. You barfed up your electrolytes."

"Thanks," the younger breathed sincerely, cracking open the orange lid and putting the rim to his lips. The liquid felt cold against his throat, and pushed away most of the nausea. He was unexplainably grateful for that last bit.

"And tomorrow we'll go out for chili dogs slathered in dripping, greasy cheese…" Through his peripherals Sam could see his brother close his eyes in bliss. In response, he elbowed the man in the ribs. Hard. A satisfying grunt of pain made him crack a smile (more of a smirk, really). "Did you keep down the soup?"

"Yeah. I feel like I went a round with a truck. Or a house."

"One of those mobile homes?"

"Too small, dude. Too small. Think…" Sam's voice grew strange, coming from the back of his throat, "bigger." He tiredly motioned with his arms.

"Hey," Dean began, a grin plastered on his face, and Sam should have taken that as a warning, "Nothing on me is small."

Sam blanched and wrinkled his nose. "Dean…" It came out more of a choke than he would have liked. "No, I'm not even going to dignify that with a reply. But I hope you go to the Confessional next time we're at Pastor Jim's." The older only laughed.

"I'm gonna get coffee from the lobby – don't die while I'm gone," Dean kidded, already pushing off of the floor again.

"Dude, I can take care of myself," the teen grouched his reply, visibly rolling his eyes.

The older brother disappeared through the ugly motel door, and Sam stared vacantly at the microwave clock. One minute turned to two, the red letters flipping by. It seemed to be taking Dean too long, but maybe Sam's internal clock was just off now. Yes, that was definitely it. He couldn't wait to sleep again, and… Well, just sleep. He was trying not to think about food, drinking was hard enough as it was. One step at a time, and he was opting for baby steps. His head lolled forward and he let out a miserable groan; his limbs were still quaking, his muscles quivering from the near-constant vomiting.

A knock on the door made him flinch. Dean wouldn't knock, would he? Sam's thoughts were already rushing. But, yes, if he had gotten more than just a coffee and couldn't open the door himself. The thirteen-year old still snatched the 45. off of the bed and set the drink down, moving to the door and standing on tip-toe in order to look out the peep-hole. Someday he was going to be taller than Dean, he promised himself that much. Dad always said he would get taller eventually, and just give it time, son.

No one stood outside of the room. He frowned and rocked back on his heels, still gripping the handgun tightly. Was it just some prank? He hated pranks. He locked the door and moved back to the bed, over the mattress and dropping himself onto his back with an unhappy sigh.

The knock came again, and this time he was both annoyed and concerned. He stood again, his body angry with him for moving so soon. If it was a prank… A surge of anger sat in his heart, but he kept it at bay. Then again, if it wasn't a prank, what was it? It could be any number of things. Or maybe it was just Dean, having a good laugh. Yeah, Sam would kill him if it was.

Still, no one was outside the door. The hairs on his neck stood on end, something niggling in his brain, a feeling he often ignored as it felt… Like a creature desperate to crawl out of his skull by any means necessary, ready to ruin him to protect itself. He wouldn't have known how to describe it if asked, and, Dean had asked him before. His failed attempts at explaining had made him the brunt of even more teasing than usual.

With a swallow, he suddenly began to hope that it was in fact his brother playing a stupid prank. More than that, he wanted Dean to show up. Now. This was starting to freak him out.

He checked the salt lines.

He looked for his flask of holy water, the one that John made him carry.

He checked the gun's magazine then slid it back in, tapped it, and racked the slide.

His nose whistled as he breathed in. C'mon, Dean, he mouthed, his eyebrows drawn together. The knock came again – what on Earth?

"Yes?" Sam spoke, keeping the wariness out of his tone. He hated being suspicious, cautious at every turn.

"I need help," a young woman's voice came back through the door, and it sounded as though her teeth were clattering, "my car broke down, I've been trying to get someone here to help me b-but they're all asleep, or… Or something. I'm sorry, I just need help. Maybe to use your cell? Then I'll get out of your hair."

Sam took a moment to think before he tucked the gun into his jean's waistband, then proceeded to pull his phone from his front pocket. He fiddled it distractedly before unlocking the door and pulling it open, looking both ways until his eyes met a pair of bright green ones. The young teen offered her a smile. "Hey, you know, my brother's pretty good with cars, if you wanna wait around for a few minutes? He just went to get some coffee from the lobby."

She looked torn. "I…I think I'll just call a tow truck. Sorry, I have trouble trusting people." She gave a smile of her own. Oh, Dean would love her, definitely. Sam inwardly snorted.

"Yeah," he agreed, "Me too. Here." With that, he reached his arm out, offering the phone to her. "I'll wait here while you make the call."

"Oh, thank you, I was scared no one would help." The girl's green eyes swam with tears and Sam gave her a slight nod just as she turned around, dialing a number and then holding the mobile up to her ear. He tried not to eavesdrop as she began speaking, but still, it was hard, being so close.

"…Come…? Oh, no…" He glanced down the long walk from the room to the main office.

"Yes, please… Thank you."

She flipped the phone closed and turned, handing the phone back. "Thanks so much."

"Yeah, course. I'm Sam, by the way."

Her smile was welcoming, it was the first thing he really noticed about her. She had long black hair and pale skin. "I'm Dany – it's nice to meet you, j-just wish it were under dif-different circumstances."

Sam worked off his jacket, "Here; you're shivering."

Gratefully Dany accepted and the tears sprang back into her eyes. "I can't thank you enough."

It really was cold outside. He kept from hugging himself – when the fever had broken, he had been left feeling too cold. Still.

Where was Dean? It really didn't take that long to get coffee from the lobby. He looked anxiously towards the main office, deciding if he should stay to make sure Dany was all right, or check on his brother. He was probably just flirting with the woman behind the desk, she had been pretty, Sam remembered that. The wind ruffled his hair and he didn't stop himself from shivering.

Squealing tires pulled his focus back to the present. He jerked in surprise, looking out towards the parking lot – a blue van with an ugly fish painted in white on the side was coming to an abrupt halt. He automatically reached for the handgun in his waistband, but stopped himself just inches short of the grip. It wouldn't do well to brandish it when both Dany and her friend were standing nearby. A feeling of unease prickled at his senses and he found himself stepping away from the others, saying,

"I gotta check on my brother, seems he got lost trying to find the coffee machine. I hope your car gets fixed."

The woman locked onto his eyes, her expressing falling, and if he didn't know better he would have thought she was disappointed. He offered a smile as recompense and held up his hand in a half-hearted wave. Sorrow and anticipation flashed through Dany's eyes, he saw that much, he was fairly good at reading people, but to be fair she didn't give any other odd signs. She returned the smile and tossed out a quiet 'thank you again' then turned back to her friend, speaking in quiet and hurried tones. Sam couldn't help but notice the glances towards his retreating back.

Someone was getting out of the van, he saw them in his peripherals but paid them little mind. Both John and Dean had taught him to be mindful of his surroundings, though they hadn't really needed to – he was generally aware of everything a little too much.

"Hey, Sam!"

Dany? He spun on a heel to face her as she came jogging after him. "I forgot, I was going to tell you…"

Running footsteps behind him, he reached for his 45.

Pain lanced through his head before he had even fully turned – a flash of white, his face rushing to meet the concrete. His nose cracked, and it was the last thing he was completely aware of; everything else was a blur of darkness and hands and falling.

His head hurt.

And God forbid he ever admit it aloud, he was scared, because when he woke again he was faced with too many painted eyes staring down at him, and they were on horrible, wretched and disfigured faces hidden behind smiling red lips, snow-white skin and ridiculously unnatural hair.

Why, _why_ did Dean leave?

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 **Not to beg, but, your reviews are precious to me and... Well, you know? *Grins***


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you all for the follows, I'm glad you enjoyed the first chapter! So this is quite a jump, and I'm thinking of changing the summary because of it... But I'm not 100% certain of whether I will or not. Anyways.**

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 ** _Seven years later._**

October third, 2003 4:28 PM,

 _It's raining in Florida. It's humid, it's hot, and it's pouring rain from Hell. The job: Victims were possessed, stabbed, and then left (Smoked-out) to bleed to death. Freakin' demons._

 _This is my last job. After this, I'm out. The saddest part? Last night was my last fling for the rest of eternity. On the bright side? I had a fling last night. Still, I'm out. Dad… After Dad… We looked for Sam for seven years, only for me to lose Dad? And a Rugaru. Not even the thing that killed Mom…_

 _This is my last job._

Dean slammed the journal closed and wrapped the piece of leather around it, then proceeded to stuff it into his duffel bag. The café was quiet tonight, only one or two people inside. The rain hammered down on the roof, singing along with the music playing from the speakers above his head. He stared down at the slice of pie he had ordered – this was his last week on Earth, he may as well indulge himself, right? That's what he had been saying. Have some fun, Dean. Have some pie, Dean. Have another beer, Dean.

Sigh. He pushed the plate away and opted for looking out the window. It was so dreadfully dreary and there was no one around to tell him now _he_ was being a girl, no one around to tell him anything. No orders from John, no overly-excited geeky explanations from Sam.

The woman's whispers from the night before had all but abandoned his mind.

No one was talking to him, he could hardly talk to himself. And he really, really hated it.

This was his last job.

He took a sad amount of comfort from that.

Up until that moment, he hadn't said it, hadn't even thought it. But it was time now, because he was about to end himself anyways. There was no point in hiding from it. Sam was dead. Worse than that, he was that crispy corpse that been found in the motel room. The crispy corpse that Dean had found when he had come back from getting coffee, and a bathroom break that had taken longer than first anticipated. Sam had been dead all along. John had been in disbelief for the past few years, looking for anything that told him his boy was alive and that had all been a setup created by whatever had killed his dear wife.

He was thinking too much. If there was one thing he didn't want to do, that was think. He took one last look at the pie and decided that eating was out of the picture, and instead stood up, taking his duffel bag and slinging it over his shoulder. When he paid, he hardly looked the woman in the eye.

The crime scenes were only an hour away, and he kept that in mind as he got into the Impala and pulled out of the parking lot. He turned on the windshield wipers and the radio, and tried to force thoughts of the case into his head. There was another missing person and it was the second day, which was when the demon took them somewhere to be impaled. Each person had been killed exactly one mile from the last, and he had a good guess where the next victim would bite it. There was a gas station exactly one mile from the thrift store that was the most recent crime scene.

He went ten over the speed limit, fifteen when he could get away with it. The rain made it more difficult to drive.

 _"Life, it seems, will fade away  
Drifting further every day  
Getting lost within myself  
Nothing matters, no one else…"_

He swallowed and it felt like sandpaper. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Signs rushed past, white and orange blurs against the drab background.

 _"I have lost the will to live  
Simply nothing more to give  
There is nothing more for me  
Need the end to set me free."_

A worse song could not have come on, but he couldn't find the heart to change it. He only realized he was feeling anything at all when the road blurred from more than just the rain, and a stabbing began in his chest.

 _"Things not what they used to be  
Missing one inside of me  
Deathly lost, this can't be real  
Cannot stand this hell I feel."_

He could see the gas station sign looming up ahead, the red letters flickering. He turned on the blinker and began to pull into the parking lot, both trying to listen to and block out the lyrics coming over the speakers,

 _"…Emptiness is filling me  
To the point of agony  
Growing darkness taking dawn  
I was me, but now he's gone…"_

A figure ran towards the door, covering their head with their jacket. Dean parked the Impala, wondering who he would leave it to, who would want it and who would treat her well. Bobby. He would leave Bobby a message, say where he could pick her up. If Bobby even had the same number, after all, Dean hadn't exactly spoken to the man since Sam went missing.

 _"I can't think, think why I should even try…  
Now I will just say goodbye."_

He stepped out and put the keys in his pocket, grabbing his duffel bag. It had everything he would need for the job, and he had taken the time to memorize an exorcism.

He stepped inside the building and checked both directions, then moved into one of the small aisles. A man bumped past him, heading for the beers. Dean paid him little mind.

This was his last job – the mantra was beginning to grow old, but it still cycled back around to the forefront of his mind. Maybe if he thought it enough he would start to accept the reality of what he was about to do – either tonight or tomorrow morning, if he was being honest. There was a good chance the hunt would end tonight. He didn't want to think about it.

And so he didn't anymore.

***SPNSPNSPNSPN***

Hours later he was back in the motel, dropping his duffel on the bed. It was a small room with one single and a tiny bathroom, and the walls were painted a bright orange. The walls were distracting and almost physically painful to look at, and as if his head didn't hurt badly enough: the demon had chucked him across the room, his head meeting the tile floor all up-close-and-in-person. But at any rate, he didn't care much about that. He had saved the young girl that had been possessed, and he counted that a win. No one else in the station had been hurt. The demon was back in Hell, where it belonged.

A hunt well done, he would say.

With a loud sigh he sat down on the edge of the mattress and glared at the old TV screen a few feet away. This was a truly awful feeling that had settled deep in his gut, but he thought he should have been used to it by now. Apparently not. He stood up and stepped outside the room, shutting the door harder than necessary. Seven years of crap, and now it had gotten even crappier. No, not just seven, about twenty years of it. He wouldn't do it longer than he had to. The walk to the lobby was long and quiet, and when he arrived, only a few people were wandering around. They had quite a few options food-wise and drinks, but he was only there for a cup of joe. Which, perhaps in a few years, in hindsight, would be ironic.

He wasn't paying attention. His head was still aching, and his heart hurt, and when he was pouring the coffee suddenly his hand was added to the list of things that were in pain. It took a moment before it burned, though. He hissed and drew the limb back to himself, dropping the pot in the same instance. He spat out a litany of curses that would have made his Marine father blush.

A woman gave him a sideways glance and visibly stepped farther away from him. He scowled inwardly and knelt down, picking up the now-empty coffee pot and wishing he could rewind, rewind time… A figure appeared by him rather suddenly, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Worse, he nearly punched the kid. The young man was wearing a name tag – must have worked at the motel. Piotr. Didn't look like an English name, nor a common one.

"Thanks," Dean began, pasting on a smile, and then taking the offered napkins, "I got it."

"Yeah, so do I. I'm used to cleaning up spills, don't worry about it." The man – Piotr – had a slight Russian accent, and took a moment to physically shoulder Dean out of the way. Dean was… Confused, for a moment at least, but pushed that feeling down and straightened up.

"You from the Motherland?"

Piotr looked up, hazel eyes staring from behind brown bangs. Dean's heart stuttered then fell – Sam had looked at him like that, years ago. When he was still… "No, just spent a lot of time there. " The nineteen-year old (he had to be around that age) pushed his hair out of his eyes.

"Working for the KGB?" Dean grinned and in response Piotr rolled his eyes.

"Why, are you, pridurok?"

"Pri-do-what?"

Piotr smirked and went back to cleaning up the spill, then stood, tossing the used napkins into the nearby trashcan. "I gotta get back to work."

"Do I know you?" Dean couldn't shake the feeling, as hard as he tried. And he tried.

"No. Unless you've been to Russia in the past few years." Piotr walked back towards the desk, only turning for a second, "Be careful."

Be careful? What kind of goodbye was that?

Thoroughly unnerved, Dean headed back towards his room. He had a feeling that he had quite a bit of research to look forward – he would end himself tomorrow, he was far too curious now…


	3. Chapter 3

**I know not a lot of people are interested in this story, but thank you for those that/who are. I appreciate it, really! SuperYellowSentai, what you told me was really helpful, thank you. :)**

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 _He hurt all over. In the little backroom, surrounded by colorful cloths, boxes and the heavy, velvet curtain before him. The noise outside was deafening, but he was doing his best not to acknowledge the thundering in his head. He wrapped his arms around his abdomen, curling in on himself and sucking in a pained breath. His gasps were quiet, after all, he wouldn't want the others to come find him. He didn't get time alone, not often. He felt like he was being gutted alive._

 _His skin crawled, chills like frozen ants running up his spine. The boy gagged, on the verge of dry heaving. He was hungry and tired, not to mention his skull was still pounding from the last performance. Voices called out from the other side of the curtain, speaking in Russian,_

 _"Give a hand to the Demon Boy!"_

 _The clapping was excited, followed by whistles and cheers. Sam wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor right then and vanish into thin air, never to be seen again. That would have been much more pleasant than what was to come. But instead he dragged himself off of the floor, wiped at his eyes and headed for the entrance. His entrance. He wore a thick black cloak, a brown tunic and darker brown pants, and knee-high boots. Someday he was going to get out. Someday he was going to snap, and killing every single one of them wouldn't matter at all, it would simply_ be.

 _When the bright artificial lights bit his unadjusted eyes he flinched, but boxed up his pain and pushed it away. He plastered on a dimpled smile and waved, waved like he had been taught, like he wasn't starving and wasn't imploding and wasn't breaking._

 _Cheers. He bowed. He could hear the moment his mic was turned on, the crackling in his ear. "Spacibo, bolshoe spacibo!"_

 _***SPNSPNSPNSPNSPN***_

Sam woke, thrashing, choking. He stilled, his eyes wide. He was in his car. In America. Parked just a few blocks from his work, and speaking of, he was supposed to be there in… He checked the clock and it blinked 3:44 PM back at him. He was supposed to be there by four and work until the front desk closed. Swallowing a mixture of bile and saliva he reached into the backseat, rifling through his duffel bag for fresh clothes. He ducked into the back as he changed, hoping no nosy dog-walker would peer in through his window.

He grabbed his knife and tucked it into his boot, then stepped outside the car. After locking the doors he began jogging – he liked jogging after all, didn't have time for exercise, and had enough time to get to work before his shift started. So it worked out well. Hopefully by the time he got there, the remnants of the memory would be faded enough for him to focus on the current situation. As soon as he got enough money he would get himself an apartment somewhere, and then he was going to college. He would be a writer. He didn't care what it took.

When he arrived at the motel, a cold wind was blowing through the parking lot. The young man bustled through the door, steadying his breaths as he walked purposefully towards the desk. His manager was there; good.

"Hey, Piotr. Thought you were gonna be late." The woman winked and smiled, but didn't bother keeping the expression there for longer than a millisecond.

"It's only my fourth day, I try not to be late my first week." He grinned.

"I don't think you've been late a day in your life."

"I haven't."

"All right – well, you know the drill. And if anyone tries to check in tonight without having already paid for the room ahead of time, tell them no, we're pretty much all filled up. The rooms that are left are for the ones that already paid for their… for reservations. Okay?"

"Got it." Sam set his palms on the wooden desk. "Is Liz feeling better?"

"You know too much about us and we know too little about you, man," Aida announced before answering his question, "Yes, she's feeling better. The fever broke."

"I'm glad. That's wonderful."

"Thanks." Aida clapped him on the back and then headed towards the door, "Ula is going to be here in half an hour, you just have to hold up the fort on your own until then. Sound good?"

"Sounds great."

He offered some kind of wave and then watched her leave.

You might ask: Why didn't he look for John and Dean?

The answer is a relatively simple one – the shame of murder is like nothing else, like no other pain or no other guilt. Often times the ones you care for the most, the ones you love the most and look up to the most are the last ones you want to tell about what you have done. What you had to do. What you didn't have to do, but did anyways.

Sam couldn't… Physically or mentally fathom explaining any of that… to them. They were hunters, kill first and ask questions later. And him? Well, he wasn't even human. It would be better if they thought he had been eaten by a Rugaru or Wendigo than if they knew he was a monster, and not turned, but born that way. Always that way. Ever since he was a child, eating Lucky Charms and learning how to speak, he was just… a breath away from being… Well, from being a demon.

A freak.

He was tired of those words, those phrases. He was just generally… Tired.

Hours passed, hours of checking people in and out and waiting for his shift to end.

Time to think, and overthink…

At least, until he heard an exclamation from just a few feet away. "Motherf-…" The gruff voice was close to a yell, on edge and angry. Sam knew the feeling. He nimbly hopped over the desk and grabbed some of the napkins from their place before going to the man's side, crouching down beside him. The other man jumped nearly out of his skin, fists raising. Piotr refrained from blocking.

Green eyes looked at his name tag for a moment.

Sam's heart lodged in his throat.

Oh God, God help him, he prayed – he couldn't give himself away.

Just a breath, a reach, a word away from his older brother. Seven years and he was so, so damned close.

Starvation felt like being gutted alive; but so did this.

He pasted on a smile, a well-practiced smile, the same one he had used at every performance. A good magician never gave away their secrets.

"Thanks. I got it." The man, Dean… Dean. He took the napkins and began setting them down on the coffee spill.

"Yeah, so do I. I'm used to cleaning up spills, don't worry about it." He shouldered Dean out of the way, because that was so very much easier than looking him in the eye.

"You from the Motherland?"

Looking up, Sam swallowed. "No, just spent a lot of time there." He forgot about his accent, he often did. Maybe with time it would go away again, after all, he was born an American.

"Working for the KGB?" Dean grinned, a crap-eating grin and Sam didn't bother stopping the eye roll. He almost laughed, too. Almost.

"Why, are you, pridurok?"

"Pri-do-what?"

It took more strength than he would have thought to get out the next few words, "I gotta get back to work." He stood – he couldn't look back, he threw the napkins away, he wouldn't look back because he wouldn't break, his resolve wouldn't budge, he wouldn't burden the only person he still cared for.

"Do I know you?"

He felt as though his very skeleton shivered. "No. Unless you've been to Russia in the past few years." Sam, Piotr, walked back towards the desk, only turning for a second, "Be careful."

He wished he could go to sleep and simply not wake up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Catherine, thank you! Very happy to hear it! :3 Oh, and thank you for the follows and favorites, they're greatly appreciated. Despite my rocky start I feel like this is pulling together, so thank each and every one of you for reading.**

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It was almost funny, how the smallest moment had given Dean just enough to hold onto to get him through the day, and that was much more than he had been expecting. He hadn't, wasn't, supposed to live through the night and yet there he was, the sun burning in the sky and his heart beating in his chest. Small mercies. Though he didn't believe in God, he found himself thanking the Man Upstairs for those small mercies anyway.

The library was almost silent, only the flipping of pages and hushed voices to fill the air. He had sat down at the computer the instant that the librarians had let him inside; they had let him in early too, since he had already been waiting outside their door for two hours. He didn't usually consider himself a patient man, but for whatever reason, this morning he felt he had all the time in the world. He watched the screen intently. He had already looked up myths and legends based on that town, and had come up with jack-squat. He felt like… Like there was something off with this kid Piotr, and he couldn't place what no matter how hard he tried - like in itch in his skull.

But, Dean's research had brought nothing. There were no ghost stories, there was nothing, nothing other than signs from the demon he had dealt with just last night. At one point Dean had nearly dialed John's number, only to remember… _To remember_. And he was trying to avoid that scenario of remembrance. Very hard.

Sam had always been good at research.

Dean rubbed a hand down the full length of his face, as though the action would make the pain there subside. In all truth he hurt all over, not just a headache, not just heartache, not just exhaustion, but every part of his soul. It was as if every inch of him was crying out to die, but he was going to figure out who this kid was, if it was the last thing he did. He just needed a small reason to keep going for a little while, he wasn't expecting a miracle, and he certainly wasn't expecting to realize one day that he was happy.

Dean pulled out his flip-phone and scrolled through the contacts. He only knew one other person who had ever rivaled Sam's research skills, but that was a person that he hadn't spoken to in ages. He didn't even know if the guy's number would still be the same. But, before Bobby had chased John off (literally chased – very hard to forget) he had been like a second-father to the boys. Well, Dean was about ready to try anything, so, what the heck…

He stood and dialed the number, holding it up to his ear and listening, waiting.

" _What?"_

"A warming welcome if ever there was one," Dean joked, "It's Dean."

"… _Dean_?" A slight, disbelieving laugh, " _Good to hear from you, boy. Thought maybe a ghost had gotten you."_

 _"_ A ghost? Nah, Bobby, it would have to be something more bada— than that."

" _Say that when they're whoopin'_ your _*bada-*."_

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, I need some help with research."

" _Course, you only call 'cause you want something_. _What's the thing you're after_?" Bobby drawled.

Dean huffed. "Well, I'm not sure yet. It's, uh… If it's anything, it emigrated from Russia."

" _Russia_?"

"Yeah."

" _Gonna give me anything more than that? I ain't a miracle worker."_

"It, uh, goes by the name Piotr?" Dean could have cringed. "It's in Florida. Ocala."

" _That's not a lead_."

Dean made his way outside and jogged down the stairs, crossing the parking lot towards the Impala. "No, but call it a hunch. He just… Something about him…"

" _You think_ _it has to do with Sam?"_

Dean slipped into the driver's side and started the engine. "Bobby, I didn't know you were psychic."

" _Ha._ _I'll look into it, make some calls. You do the same."_

"Yes-sir."

" _Ah, don't call me that. That was your Pa, not me."_

"Thanks for checkin' this out."

" _Yeah, yeah…"_ The grumbles were proceeded by a click as the older man hung up. Dean began driving, opting for leaving the radio off. The motel was only a few minutes away from the library – very convenient, it was one of the reasons he had picked that one for his previous hunt. Now it seemed that he had yet another hunt… Somehow.

When he arrived at the building again, rain had started pouring down. The weather was miserable, and the humidity made him feel like he was wearing a layer of sweat. Complaining under his breath he headed off towards the main doors, pushing through them and into the warmly colored main room.

He had expected the same boring scenario he had become accustomed to. Grandmother's making themselves tea and Piotr meandering behind the front desk.

But not what he came in on.

"J-just put it in the bag! Now!"

Whatever thoughts had been going through his head dispersed instantly. He reached for his firearm on instinct, heartbeat thrumming in his throat. A man wearing a ski mask, jeans and a lose fitting and stained T-shirt was aiming a revolver at Piotr's face, at the same time he motioned for the young clerk to put money in the open duffel bag.

Dean hadn't been noticed yet. If he took the shot, he risked hitting Piotr.

Already he wasn't liking his options.

Ski-Mask jerked the handgun towards Piotr, spitting out a litany of curses mingled with 'do it'.

Well, Dean had practiced this enough in his young life, he only hoped that Piotr would listen… "Down!"

Piotr dropped like an anchor. Ski-Mask flung around, terrified, firing a shot that penetrated one of the walls. A woman screamed. Dean took his shot – and hit his mark, the robber yowling in pain and dropping the weapon in response, grabbing at his now-bleeding hand. He made a bee-line for the hallways, no doubt hoping to find another exit other than the one Dean had planted himself in front of. Fine. Let him run, then.

"Piotr? You good?"

"Yeah, yeah…" Piotr sounded breathless. Dean started approaching the desk, seeing the young man's hands gripping at the wooden surface as he pulled himself up. "Good shot." The remaining Winchester peered over the edge, staring at a head of unruly brown hair.

"Nice reflexes."

"Thanks. I gotta call the cops, sorry."

Most people didn't apologize for having to call the police. Dean brushed that fact out of his mind. When Piotr wobbled on his feet Dean reacted, gripping the man's elbow in order to steady him. He looked for an injury until his eyes landed on the glistening red line near Piotr's hairline, probably a casualty of trying to communicate with the jumpy robber. Dean carefully prodded at the wound, making a face, "You'll be fine."

"Thanks for the, uh, save." Piotr pulled his arm away even as he spoke, instead leaning against the counter.

"Huh. You're welcome."

Piotr sighed and then tried to smile before he reached for the phone, dialing 911…

Dean was definitely, definitely figuring out who he was.


	5. Chapter 5

***Screams of pained resolve***

 **Okay - Savannah! Thank you for reviewing! And... Oh dear, I have no idea, does Sam find trouble or does trouble find him? Either way, I'm going to try to explain a bit in the author's note and I hope it helps a bit... *Brandishes Excalibur to banish confusion***

 **So, you were confused about chapter three... If you don't want spoilers, skip over this next bit of explanation! Please!**

 **Sam is kidnapped by an unknown group. Basically. This unknown group, well, they're sort of... human traffickers. As far as I've planned, he was then sold to a Russian circus owner - the traffickers had heard from a demon about the demon blood, and so he was marketed as gifted and the likes. If that helps any? He was thirteen and now he is twenty and so he has a slight accent, and he goes by Piotr because of it. He's questioned less about the accent if he has a name that originated from Russia/Slavic origin. Hopefully that clears things up a bit more. *Smiles***

 **Thank you so much for the reviews, follows and favorites! They mean so much.**

* * *

Sam took a deep breath and let it out in a shuddering sigh. The police had been all over the place, locked it down for a time, spoken with the owner, the managers, him, Dean… Although, Dean had gone by the name 'Ron Schuyler'. Still, not the point. They hadn't found the want-to-be-robber, but they had taken a sample of his DNA to run from the blood staining the green carpet. They had said there was a good chance that the DNA scan wouldn't come up with anything; it wasn't like it was in the movies. They could use it to match with their suspects when they had any, but until then, if the man wasn't already on record, it was useless.

He didn't care much. The man had sounded more like a teenager, probably just looking to get some extra cash for one thing or another, and the wound had probably crippled his hand. He wouldn't be holding a gun in it again. There was a good chance he wouldn't try anything like that, he had probably learned his lesson.

But, his head was still hurting. He had gotten himself a room in the motel, actually, wanting to sleep in an actual bed for a while instead of his… commandeered vehicle. With a sigh, Sam laid down on the mattress and tried to rub the headache out of his temples as he stared up at the stained roof. Seven years. But those seven years were over, and if he could just get that into his mind, he would be happy. Half-heartedly he reached over, batting at the small desk. His hand came in contact with the alarm before finally finding the controller, and a moment later he was flipping through the channels. A soap opera, commercials galore, and a horror movie. Horror movie it was. He tossed the controller on the bed beside himself and then stood, walking into the bathroom. Was this really him? Was he doing the right thing? Should he just turn himself in? Should he tell Dean? He couldn't tell Dean, the idea of doing so send spike of cold through his heart. Maybe that cold was fear, but he preferred to believe it was determination. He was determined not to let his brother down. If Dean knew, he would be more than disappointed – he would be mortified, and would probably wish to unlearn what he had learned. No one wanted to be family with a monster.

It was funny, in a bitter way. Dean wouldn't be angry about what Sam had done to escape. He would agree, whole-heartedly, say they deserved it. And maybe they had. He wouldn't be angry about the powers; unnerved, maybe even scared (although, that wasn't something he would admit, certainly), but he wouldn't blame Sam for it. It was the… the blood. All of the blood. Everything, soaked and stained with sulfuric, rotting blood…

Sam jumped when a scream came from the TV. He stared, wide-eyed, flashes of images and thundering noise burning just behind his eyes. A woman in the movie stared sobbing hysterically, then retching – he made a choking sound in the back of his throat and rushed for the controller, snatching it off of the desk and pressing every button until the screen turned black and the noise stopped. He was left panting, his heart beating like a drum in his ribcage, something lodged in his throat - and shaking like a leaf. He should have gone with the soap opera.

He pressed a hand over his eyes, his expression pained. _Kill me, God_. He pressed his palm into his eye, hoping the physical pain would alleviate the other agony. He bit into his tongue until he could taste blood and the stabbing overtook the thoughts. He counted his breaths, it was all he could do. _One, two, three, four…_

Sam didn't want to be alone with this. He hated it. What made it worse? His brother was so close. Someone who would help him. But he couldn't go, he couldn't explain, he wouldn't find the words and he couldn't find the strength. Weak – he must have been weak, his mind offered, weak and prideful. He pressed his back against the wall and slid down to the floor, digging his nails into his scalp. It didn't matter if he was broken here, no one would find him. No one would come looking, and no one would ever see past his walls. The fact that he was so sure of those things made his veins throb, because it was all his fault, because he could go get help, because he could tell the truth, but instead he was tearing himself apart and piecing back together what was left so he could save them, so they wouldn't be bothered, so he would still just be Piotr the confidant motel receptionist and not Sam, the selfish mental junkie.

He couldn't be seen as that. He couldn't be seen as broken, as weak. As giving up, as breaking. He couldn't be seen this way. So many people had so many different problems, were trying to deal, and seeing him as he was would be the farthest thing from helpful. He needed to be good. Ashamed, he pressed himself closer to the wall, wishing it could swallow him whole. But it wouldn't. It never did.

He felt hungry – was he starving? Had he ever left the circus, was he still there, caged and thirsty and dying and suffering through withdrawal, alone, a withdrawal that made his stomach cramp from the very thought of what he was trying to detox from. Sam sucked in a breath, and it felt like he was trying to breathe through a straw. He wanted it to be over, he couldn't feel anything past that gaping hole in his chest, his heart bleeding out all over the floor…

***SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN***

" _I got somethin'."_

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. So maybe he hadn't just been imagining it, that this Piotr guy was… off. "You gonna elaborate or are you just waiting for me to guess?"

" _Give me a minute, smart-aleck. I got other things to do too, you know. So it turns out Matthias knows about this Piotr kid. He came from Russia just a few months ago, been ditching his hunter tails."_

 _"_ He's being hunted? What is he?"

" _Well, Matthias says some people think he's a Cambion, half-demon and half-man. Others think he's a warlock. He used to work with a carnival, they called him 'D'yavol Muzhchina'. Mean's Devil Man."_

"Okay – anything else?"

" _Yeah – I'm not sure they should be condemning him so quickly. Heard he could kill demon with his mind. Doesn't sound like a bad thing to me."_

Dean frowned, the nodded to himself. "Thanks Bobby." He was going to have quite a talk with Piotr the next time they met…


	6. Chapter 6

**So this one is a bit more... intense? Da. Intense. *Beams innocently* I hope you all enjoy, your support is flooring. This one is dedicated to Catherine Gwiwer, thank you for your kind words. *Happy dance party***

 **Oh, and the end was inspired by a conversation I had with SpnKsl5 - if you remember what we talked about, then you'll be afraid, very afraid... (Kidding. Mostly.) *Evil laughter***

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Sam stared at the blinking cursor, holding back a sigh. He had been trying to write for the past two hours, and he still had nothing. That rarely happened to him. He was a good writer, but was that really what he wanted to be doing? He frowned and reached for his coffee, taking a drink and trying not to wish that it was alcohol. It seemed to be one of those days; no, one of those weeks. The police still hadn't found the robber, and Sam was wondering if he was going to lose his job, the new manager had already taken a disliking to him. Brand, brand new manager. He shut the laptop and ran a hand through his hair, checking the clock by the bed. It was 7:00 AM and he had started his early shift hours ago, and was currently on lunch break. He had about five minutes left, which was enough time to finish his drink and walk through the hallways.

He stood, pulling on his jacket and taking the coffee in his hand. He locked the door behind himself as soon as he had gone out, and then started down the wide hall. Things were a bit better today. He just had to go through the motions for a little while longer – soon, Dean would leave the town, as soon as whatever hunt he was on had finished. Speaking of, where was John? Sam had already guessed that Dean had started going on hunts by himself, but what about their father, where was he?

A lanky man in what looked to be construction worker's clothing was walking towards him from the stairway entrance. At first Sam paid him little mind, until he noted the fellow's brown eyes glaring into his skull. He stopped, rifled through his pockets, frowned, and turned around, faking the loss of keys. Call him paranoid, but he had every right to be. He took a moment to glance over his shoulder, only to make eye contact with the construction worker. Who looked very intent on following him back to his room. And could he not catch a break? As soon as the question popped into his mind, the elevator doors dinged and slid open, revealing two burly looking men also dressed the same way. Had he ticked off the construction team and not realized it? His lips quirked up in a mirthless smile at the thought and he turned to the left, speeding up his pace through another corridor.

Risking one more quick-look behind himself, he saw the three were definitely following him. So it was a low-life, jumpy thief one day and homicidal construction workers the next? He ground his teeth together hard enough to hear the sound. His coffee dropped onto the carpet, the lid jostled off and warm brown liquid sloshed over the lip.

He ran, thanking God for long legs as he put distance between himself and the three. Running footsteps followed him, and he counted the rooms – his was B55, just a few doors down. He was cursed, and he hated it with every fiber of himself. Normalcy seemed to be farther out of his reach with each passing year, but who had he been kidding, had he ever had a chance? He was infected with demon blood before even turning one. That was a death sentence for his opportunities.

He found the key and struggled to fit it in the lock, when he did he was pushing through the door, looking for his gun, grabbing his duffel and digging out the salt –

The door banged against the wall and he jumped to face the intruders. Brown eyes blinked, and opened as black. Sam's intestines seemed to twist into knots, a tired sort of dread taking its not-so-rightful place in his gut. They crowded into the too-small room, actually closing the door behind themselves. Sam's hand snaked into the duffel and he searched for the cold metal material of his flask, the flask he had bought the day after getting back to the states. It was filled with salted holy water, and if he could just find it…

"Heard you were off the juice – thought we would come for a little… Well, what to call it… Pay back, I suppose." The man's – demon's? – voice sounded strained, and very much like the vocal chords had been rubbed with a cheese-grater.

"Is that what you heard?" Sam pasted on a smirk and squared his shoulders, lifting his chin. "Are you sure you heard right?"

"All bravado and pride, aren't you?" The nameless demon stepped forward, steepling his spindly fingers. "That kid? The supposed-robber, came in a few days ago, tried to make some extra cash? He was one of mine. If you were on the blood, you would have known, and you would have taken him down. See? I'm smart. Have a few centuries of experience after all."

Sam swallowed, and it felt very much like he had swallowed rocks down his sand-paper throat. "A demon?"

"Ja, dummkopf. Now that poor, innocent sophomore is a cripple for life. Plus, his parents think he robs stores at night." The creature laughed. Sam felt his fingers wrap around the ice-cold flask.

"I speak Russian, not German, Durak," Sam's eyes gleamed with a strange light as he smirked.

"Ooh – feisty for a man on death row. Well," the possessed construction worker waved a hand, "not death row, per say, but you're definitely on my hit list. So. How are we gonna do this?"

Sam took that moment to toss the holy water, the familiar hissing like burning skin filling the room. The thing howled, throwing itself backwards and attempting to wipe off the liquid from its face. The other two moved forward, hands grabbing at Sam's arms, trying to haul him back against the wall. He lashed out, knocking one of them away before their leader took that one's place. He grunted as he was slammed up against the bathroom door. A face leered in front of him, the demon having sauntered back – "Looks like I'm going to have the pleasure of finishing this."

Sam spat, pleased when he hit his mark.

" _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…"_

A hand clamped down over his mouth, effectively stopping his speech. He bit down on the man's finger, hard enough to draw blood. The metallic tang filled his mouth, bitter and sweet at the same time – he kept from swallowing it. He gagged, fighting the urge to drink, instead meeting the eyes staring into his. He didn't dare to blink, much-less look away.

" _omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio_  
 _infernalis adversarii, omnis legio,_  
 _omnis congregatio et secta diabolica._  
 _Ergo draco maledicte…"_

When the exorcism was started up again, it wasn't Sam's voice. The creatures dropped him, and with the noise of muffled yells, black smoke poured out and towards the roof. Sam swallowed, before realizing the blood had still been in his mouth. Instantly he bolted for the bathroom, flinging the door open and falling to his knees in front of the toilet. His arms burned, his hands were on fire, his throat constricted. He choked, wishing for all that he was worth that he could rewind. He hadn't realized, hadn't meant to swallow it. He wanted more. No, no, he _didn't_. He gripped the porcelain, fighting between breaths to heave.

Footsteps had followed him into the tiny room, but he ignored the other figure. For a while, at least.

"Whoa, buddy. Calm down. They're gone."

Dean. _Dean._ He had come, found him, saved him again. "De'n," Sam sputtered miserable, just before another bout of suffocated chokes.

"…What did you just call me?"

His brother's voice was low, and dangerous.

He couldn't answer. He had forgotten his cover. He was just Piotr – just Piotr. Piotr only knoew about Ron. Suspiciously, his next set of dry heaves sounded more like sobs. They weren't, though, of course, at least he told himself that they weren't. Wrapping one arm around his abdomen he leaned over the bowl, feeling the blood tickling the back of his throat. He had to _get it out_.

He coughed out crimson, as well as more bile. His face felt damp, the heaving forcing tears out of his eyes. His stomach cramped and he moaned, low in his throat.

"Hey, stop puking up your guts, seriously." Dean's voice was gruffer than usual, "I know what you are, Piotr. You're not just some clerk."

Sam's heart stopped. He looked up, his eyes wide, tear tracks still glistening.

"Figured out what you did in Moscow, how you killed those people? Pretty cruel if you ask me. I know about the powers, too. What I don't get is, why didn't you just kill those demons back there? Getting weak?"

Sam dropped his head onto the hard seat, coughing. He didn't know. He just knew some of it. "They were slave owners. What would you have done?"

"I don't know, moved to America?"

Sam laughed, bitterly. "It's not that simple."

A hand fisted in his shirt, and suddenly he found himself being hauled off of the floor. He was being shoved back up against the wall – oh, his back was definitely going to be bruised tomorrow.

"Tell me what you are."

"What do you think I am?" Sam managed, meeting brilliant-green eyes.

"Witch? Cambion? Psychic?"

Sam's sigh stuttered, "Psychic is closest." He shoved Dean away, hard. "Now leave me alone."

"How do you know my name?"

Sam hadn't realized that Dean had pulled is gun, he hadn't noticed it, or when. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to force the growing headache away. "Hey! Answer me!"

"Psychic, remember?"

Dean started to lower the weapon, still looking suspicious. "Right."

Sam pushed past his brother, making his way into the main part of the motel room. He started packing his duffel, shoving the flask back inside. He couldn't stay here any longer. He couldn't keep looking Dean in the face, pretending that what he saw there didn't hurt.

"Where do you think you're going, Piotr?" Dean growled.

"None of your business," Sam grumbled a response, pulling the duffel bag over his shoulder. Dean hadn't been hunting some monster - he had been hunting _Sam_. The headache was getting increasingly worse, and he was trying harder to ignore it. A thought trickled into his mind – what if it's not just a headache, when is it ever just a headache for you? Come on, Sam. Slow down.

A sharp pang flared in his temple, then moved across his eyes. His expression crumbled into one of pain, but he still tried to move for the door. If he was having a vision, he didn't want Dean to be around to see it. He focused on breathing as the world tilted, bright lights flashing before his eyes. Before he knew it, he had dropped onto his knees. Someone had cried out – it was him, he realized dully.

Images, flashes, a dark room.

Not a room. The Impala. Music was playing, deafeningly loud. Led Zeppelin, he recognized that.

Dean, he saw Dean, sitting in the driver's seat. He was holding a gun, and it was resting in his lap. There were tears on his face, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey in the passenger seat.

He raised the barrel under his chin and looked up at the roof, jaw muscles jerking.

Sam was screaming – _no, no, no, no, Dean, please no_ – Dean wouldn't hear him, wouldn't even look.

A gunshot. Blood splattered on the inside of the window.

 _"No!"_


	7. Chapter 7

**All right, so, thank you TheTownWeirdo for your lovely advising, I honestly love feedback that can help me improve! So I hope that this chapter is a bit more... put-together! Well-paced? Not skippy? *Laughs a self* Hope you all enjoy, you're all wonderful.**

 **Oh, and I re-read one of my chapters and realized that I missed a few typos... How shameful! Thank you for putting up with that, too. Oh, and something important about this that I've been trying to make clear - they don't know each other's story yet, really, so every chapter or half-chapter when it's just one of their POVs, you will only get their side of the story.**

* * *

When Piotr came-to, he was shaking all over. Dean was… unnerved was a good word for what he currently was. The man had doubled over, grasping at his head and whispering under his breath. Talk about surprising. Still, Dean had waited it out, trying to get the Russian to talk to him, to explain what was going on. When hazel eyes finally became focused, they wouldn't meet Dean's own. In fact, the guy looked everywhere _but_ at him. His shoulders were quaking, his skin tone two shades paler than it had been just a few minutes ago. Dean frowned, having crouched in front of the crumpled psychic. He gave the man a pat on the cheek, a wake-up call. "Hey. Tell me what's going on."

A soft curse. Piotr dropped his face into his cupped hands. Whatever he had seen must have overwhelmed him – had he seen something? Well, he was a psychic, maybe he got premonitions. If what had just happened was any sign, than he definitely got visions. It was an educated guess on Dean's part, and his gut agreed, so he was going to roll with that. Dean had been through a lot these last few years – well, these last twenty-four years to be honest, but that was so far from the point – he had seen people in some really bad places, but this guy may just have looked more mortified than Dean had ever seen someone.

"You can't do it." When Piotr did choke out a sentence, it made even less sense than his mental break-down from moments ago.

"Yeah… Right. Let's get you on the bed, sasquatch," Dean pulled one of the man's arms over his shoulders and began to stand, lifting with his knees. This guy was more of a dead-weight than a corpse. Or he was just heavy, for being such a skinny looking dude. Dean supposed it was both the former and the latter.

"Uuhhg," Piotr complained, one of his palms pressed against his forehead. He tried to push away, but Dean gripped his waist tighter. "Le'mme go."

"How 'bout no." Dean helped him towards the twin bed, matching his pace to the other man's slow ambling one. If there was something he knew how to do, even if it was a pain in the neck, he was well and self-trained in the art of taking care of people at their worst. If he had to. He tried not to get mixed up in that sort of deal, though.

When he deposited the young man onto the bed, he tried to ignore the pang of loss in his heart. Sometimes, a little voice in the back of his head repeated one thing, one and one thing only – Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam who was dead, died at thirteen, brutally killed, burned to death in a grimy motel room that he hated just after getting over a stupid flu bug, who had died in a life that he despised, who had died and left a heartbroken father and brother and was gone, just gone. Sam.

A wretched, strained half-breath was wheezed out of Piotr and pulled Dean's attention back to the present. Just as he looked down, he saw the man throw his legs off of the end of the bed and sit up, hunched over. In the small, deathly quiet room, Dean could have sworn he heard the tear hit the floor as it rolled off the tip of the man's nose. Dean was going to need a drink after this. No, not just one drink, he was going to need them all. All of the drinks.

"What'd you see?" Dean resigned himself and sat beside Piotr. Trying not to feel awkward. Or to act it.

"Why… Why, Dean? Why are you going to do it? How could you do it? To D-d- your Dad? How could you just…" Piotr struggled to speak, struggled to keep composure. He ducked his head, a strand of hair falling in his face. His eyes pinched tightly shut, before he turned to look at Dean, hazel eyes wet. "Give up?" his voice wasn't solid anymore, it was a shell, a choked and watery sounding shell.

Dean felt cold, like he had vacationed to the North Pole and gone swimming. "What did you just say?" He hated psychics. Maybe.

"You want to know…" Quietly, Piotr shook his head, looking down at his trembling hands, "what I saw? I saw you – I saw you die! In the Impala, in your car, with Dad's gun, how could you use Dad's gun?" Piotr didn't bother hiding the tired sob this time.

Dean nearly shuddered. He swallowed, feeling like a freezing hand had grabbed the back of his neck. He tried to laugh it off. That was a coping mechanism to all things weird and painful. "Gett'n a little too in character, there, Peter."

"No!" The sudden shout caught Dean by surprise. Piotr moved with a precise agility and speed that he hadn't seen in someone in years, grabbing Dean's jacket lapels, half tugging and half shoving him up and off of the bed. The hunter reached for his gun, which was tucked safely in his waistband. "You're selfish, and stupid!" Piotr's voice rose to a roar, and he spat the insults out. Way to make a guy feel good about himself, creepy psychic dude… "How could you even… _Think_ about doing that? You told me…" Whatever Piotr was going to say, he seemed to swallow it down. "I…"

Dean had had enough. "Who do you think you are? You don't know a thing about me, or my family, don't even claim to! A few visions doesn't give you any right to my life. My Dad's dead, don't think he'd care _what_ gun I use, my whole family's dead, gone, Piotr. Dead!"

Piotr's mouth actually dropped open. He gaped, his throat working. He sputtered. "Dean…" The word was so soft, he almost didn't hear it at all.

"I'm just done. I got nothin' left to live for, kid." Dean rubbed a hand over his half-closed eyes, the weariness brought back. The weight. The constant burden.

Piotr thumped a hand against Dean's chest, dropping his head as he seemed to choke on his own air. "…What about Sam?" Again, so soft, so quiet, almost inaudible. Somehow gentle, curious, and destroyed all at the same time. Again, Dean was really starting to dislike this psychic mind-reading thing.

"Don't. Don't even. You have no right."

"I have!" Piotr dragged in a breath, his anger boiling over, "Every right! I _am_ Sam."

Dean balked instantly, as though burned. He stepped back, his usual mask replaced by… by everything, and nothing all at once. It snapped into rage. Piotr didn't give him a chance to react more than that,

"You gotta believe me, man – Please _. Please_." Piotr's eyes brimmed with tears. "You made some… Stupid code for if we were ever in trouble. Funky?" Piotr obviously tried for a laugh, but it died on his tongue, "The ash tray? The last thing… The last thing I told you, was…. That I could take care of myself. I wanted to get you off my back. I wanted to prove myself to you."

Dean intertwined his fingers together in his hair, distress rolling off in waves.

Piotr looked scared. Honest to God scared.

"…Please believe me, Dean. I'm begging you. You're scaring me, man."

"…Sammy?" He could see it in his eyes – in his face, hear the same voice behind the accent, behind the age. It was there. His mind had been whispering it all along – he had ignored it. Ignored it. Seven years. Words were a jumbled mess in his head. Piotr nodded – Piotr, Sam.

Sam.

He didn't care what had happened, for a moment, for the past seven years.

Dean gripped Sam's shoulders to yank him forward, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. The kid had put on muscle. Dean closed his eyes tightly, afraid that he would open them to find himself awoken from a dream, staring up at some motel roof, alone again. Empty. He was afraid it would be gone. He fisted his hands in his brother's jacket – his brother. _His_ _brother_. He could feel the man's breath against his neck, stuttering and warm.

"Dean…"

Dean held him tighter, his cheek pressing against Sam's hair. "I gotcha, little brother. You're gonna be just fine." _I'm gonna be fine._ He still felt cold - enough so that he couldn't feel his limbs.

 _How could I have missed it?_


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you so much for the support. I wanted this chapter to be... more comfortable. I know a lot of the times when there is a reunion fic, things are really tense. I would rather show how two people can miss each other, not how two people can be worlds apart.**

 **Haley! Thank you for your feedback! Yes, they can be really fun! :D I hope this lives up to expectations.**

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Sam relished it. Every single second of it. He had forgotten how good it felt to be touched, not in a demanding, expecting way, not in a hollow gesture, but something so sincere. He had forgotten that it could be like this. He had… forgotten so much. Maybe he sounded too clingy, but he didn't care, it wasn't as if someone could read his thoughts. A hand clasped the nape of his neck, and he could have thought that his skin was vibrating. He didn't exactly know how to explain it.

Safe. That was the word. He felt as safe as he was sure he could feel anymore. He didn't want to move, because he knew that the bottomless dread would fall back into the pit of his stomach, making it hard to breathe and hard to swallow and hard to function, hard to press past the restricting despair. But Dean wasn't about to move. He wouldn't let go first, even if Sam hadn't known him the last seven years, he could tell that much by the hand gripping his jacket, by the strength behind the hug, a strength that ws usually brought on by the fear of letting go – the fearful strength of holding someone's wrist as they dangled over a cliff. The strength that is everything you have with which to hang on to your lifeline.

But someone had to move, and if Dean wouldn't, then Sam would. He shifted, burying his face in his brother's shoulder, taking in the old-familiar smells of leather and smoke. He pulled back, wiping at his face, and it was cold and damp to the touch. He sniffed, the sound suspiciously blocked.

"You were dead." Dean's voice was a forced rough sound, and yet it still disappeared at the last word. He ran a hand over his face, pulling his jaw down and then dropping his arm. He turned, half away from Sam, but still not willing to let him fully out of his sight. Sam's heart twisted.

"Traffickers."

Dean turned white, five shades paler than Sam thought any living person was able. He spun back to face his younger brother, staring. Sam tried not to shift under his gaze. "…What…"

Sam started speaking again – quickly. "A girl needed help with her car, I lent her my phone and she called a friend. I said I was going to go find you, and when I started leaving, a van pulled out, few guys got the jump on me."

If Sam thought Dean couldn't look any paler, he had been wrong. The older of the two's expression turned unreadable, flat. Dangerous. His green eyes were cold, ice cold.

"It was stupid, I should have… I should have…" Sam shook his head, unable to think of what he should have done. "Something." He sighed and turned away, ashamed of how his eyes swam.

"You're going to tell me everything, Sam. You hear me? If you think there's even one irrelevant detail, you're going to tell me that, too. From the minute I left the motel."

"You don't want to hear it, Dean," Sam turned back, fighting to keep what little composure and dignity he had left. "You don't want to know."

"I do," Dean said, his voice harsh, frustration and anger and pain in every inch of his posture – but it was all contained, all of it. "I'm getting some food in you. Burgers. Now." He put a hand on Sam's shoulder, guiding him towards the door. He was pushing everything down. For Sam. Something lodged in the younger man's throat, but he pretended it didn't. He just… didn't try to talk yet. "You're a freaking giant," Dean murmured.

He had last seen Sam at thirteen. A laugh made its way past the lump stuck in his throat, a quiet and airy laugh. Dean's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Why did the black-eyes gang up on you?"

Sam gulped, steadying his voice, "Prolly because I sent one of their buddies downstairs. Or, it could be because I killed one of their other buddies."

"Yeah… Heard about that. How're you doing that anyway, Psychic-Wonder?"

"It's a…. Really long story."

"Burgers and beer, then."

"…Longer story."

"Burgers and whiskey it is."

Sam tried for a laugh, but it sounded clogged. "…Dad. I mean, what you said about Dad, is that…?"

Dean's adam's apple bobbed. "Yeah. Tell you what, after you finish explaining, I'll give you _my_ lowdown." Sam nodded, trying not to acknowledge the quaking in his hands. This was tough. More than tough, tougher than he had thought it would be when he had spat out his real name – I am Sam. How long had it been since he had said that name outloud? He had been called either Piotr, Boy, D'yavol Muzhchina or some other insulting sort of name for the past seven years. Sam had been left behind when Dean had gone for coffee. _Sam_ had been beaten out of him on the ship to Russia, and _Piotr_ had been beaten in. Although, in truth, Sam had always referred to himself as, well, _Sam._

When they stepped into the parking lot, Sam's eyes fell on the Impala. He had seen it parked there for the past few days, he had even been so very close to going over to look at it. He had resisted the urge. But now? He smiled slightly. The sun was glaring off of the windows and the vehicle's slick black surface. Sam pretended that he didn't feel a pang in his chest, and he was very good at pretending. A moment later they were standing by the doors, Dean slipping into the driver's side and waiting for his brother. The younger ran his hand over the Impala's top before he got in as well.

Dean was staring at him; perhaps he had been doing so the entire time and Sam hadn't noticed, but even if that were true… He returned the stare with one of confused concern. "What?" he said, or thought he had said, only a second later realizing he had only mouthed the word. His brother swallowed and looked away, putting the keys in ignition. Sam leaned his forehead against the window, it was cool and oddly comforting. And, it did help escape from some of the heat.

"…Sam?"

"Yeah?" He lifted his head. He hadn't realized how tired he was.

"Talk to me."

Confused, Sam tilted his head, frowning slightly.

"…About anything. Just talk." Dean refused to meet his gaze now, but never stopped looking over to make sure the younger man was really still there. Sam gulped. Oh.

"Yeah, uh… I met one of the Baba Yaga sisters. Baba Yaga is a Russian myth, folklore. There are three sisters, often associated with bony legs or having a hut…" Even Sam stopped paying much attention to what he was saying, he just knew that he was talking, and it seemed to appease Dean. He was assuring his brother that he was still there. That maybe, just maybe, neither of them would wake up. That they wouldn't end up alone again. If what Sam had seen was true: and it always was, then Dean had been… He was close to, had almost… Sam had almost let him kill himself. Because he was too afraid of what Dean would think of him. Think of the powers, think of the blood. It would have been on him. It would have been completely his fault, and, he couldn't have taken that back, and how could he have lived with himself after that? "…Ivan went to the third sister and…" and where was he in the story? Had he already gotten to that part? He swallowed, painfully aware that he had come to a sudden stop in his explanation. He didn't usually stop: he was a decisive, confidant person. He was smart. He could talk when he had to. But where were his words now? Stuck somewhere behind his face and above his throat, he supposed, dying before they rolled off of his tongue.

"What is the moral of this Yaga Baga story?" Dean asked sardonically, hiding something behind his voice, hiding something that scared Sam. Somehow. Why?

"Baba Yaga," Sam corrected, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. He stared out the window. Thinking. And overthinking. "Dean, I'm… I thought for sure that you and Dad were coming. Sometimes I imagined…" Why was it so hard to swallow, to clear his throat? "That you were in the audience, there to bust me out."

The Impala pulled into a fast-food parking lot. Sam pried his gaze away from the other cars and looked at his brother – Dean's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his teeth clenched hard enough that Sam could see tensed muscles in his set jaw.

It hurt. His father was dead. He had just learned that today, the same day that his brother had learned to some degree just what a… Well, just what he was. The same day that things seemed to fall apart, they felt a little bit better. But he needed to tell Dean something, he needed to say something good, because with what he had seen in that last vision? Sam couldn't imagine sleeping the same again, and it had been bad enough before. But this wasn't about him. This was about his brother now. Sam had gotten out of his Hell – but it seemed that the one person he had always been able to count on, the one that he had looked up to, tried to be like… Hadn't gotten out of his. He was trapped in the fires of his mind. Sam could see it in his eyes; he recognized that look from what he saw in the mirror, and he knew that he had to say something. "But… I got out myself. I took care of myself, Dean. I'm okay." Was it the right thing to say? Well, he didn't know, but it was what he wanted to say and it was what felt right in the moment.

"I was supposed to take care of you. It was my job. And what did I do? I took too long getting a drink. I didn't find leads for seven years. I couldn't save my father, and it turns out, I couldn't even save my brother because he saved himself."

"Dean…" Sam began, the word sounding like a soft 'pop', "It's not your fault. Whatever happened to Dad – he was gonna get stopped by something one day, we both know that. Hunters don't just hunt into old age. He wouldn't have wanted that anyway."

Dean's expression seemed to twitch, but he made an effort to put more focus into parking than the words he was saying, "Right."

"Dean," Sam tried again, "I need you now. _I need you_ , okay? Don't check out on me. Just say you won't. Promise me you won't." He turned his torso sideways, leaning forward and staring intently.

"Okay! I won't. Stop shark-eyeing me," Dean grumbled, some bit of humor back. He clambered out of the car.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief, then followed after his older sibling towards the brightly colored building. It was going to be a long explanation, and one that he didn't know where to begin. But he was going to get through this. _You're going to get through this, Winchester._


	9. Chapter 9

**Wow - I was surprised by the response this morning. *Grins* Thank you all very much. Oh, so, I was wondering why I had a 'chapter nine' in my document but there were only eight posted and I hadn't written one that I hadn't already published yet, and then I realized that I had typed the next chapter title after finishing eight... *Headdesk* But enough of my misadventures.**

* * *

 _1996, December 13th_

How many days had it been? It had felt like an eternity, and one that was made of darkness and muted voices on the other side of every wall. Every room he ended up in was nearly pitch black, either that or lit by a flashlight – which was rare – and usually shook and rattled, as though the room itself was driving down a highway. Probably the back of a truck. In fact, come to think of it, it was probably true to say that he had been put in the back of that van, and then switched off into the back of a semi, and then one more time taken into another place. But now? It was no longer a truck.

 _It was a ship. And he didn't remember when or how he had gotten there, probably completely drugged for the last few days or however long it had been. Had Dean called their Dad yet? Yes, of course he had. They were coming, for sure. They were excellent trackers and hunters and just good at piecing these things together in general… He had to wait it out. And put up a fight when he could. There were other people in this room, and he was doing his best to wake up enough so as to make sure they were alive and none were injured. That was his job. That would be his job. Just… as soon as he could shake the blurry, fogginess from his head. His hands slowly dragged over the floor, tiny slivers of wood plunging into his skin. He winced._

 _He listened, trying to make out something other than the ringing in his head. Waves. Water rushing up against the sides of the ship, rocking the craft. A plane would have been easier, wouldn't it? His mind offered uselessly. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, mustering what strength was left in his limbs. He pulled his legs underneath of him and pushed his chest away from the floor, his arms trembling, his elbows threatening to lock. He hissed quietly._

 _What were the voices saying? They sounded so near, but too far to be intelligible. He strained to hear anyway._

 _"…Chto? Nyet, nyet, on est…"_

 _It wasn't even English. His hopes of understanding were dashed in an instant. He blinked, hard, in hopes of clearing his eyesight. A light came into focus, three lanterns eventually coming together into one. At least there was some light here. Someone was crying – it sounded like a little girl, and when he saw her, he realized that she couldn't have been more than five. His heart broke. Sam shook his head in order to retain more focus and then crawled on his hands and knees, coming to the little girl's side. He had never been great with kids, but…_

 _"Hey there," the thirteen-year-old tried, rocking backwards until he felt the wall. The girl flinched at his sudden approach and close presence, but she didn't move away, only started to cry louder. Someone across the room groaned something about getting her to shut up. "What's your name?" He leaned closer to her, lowering his voice._

 _The child shifted, looking up from the tear-soaked knees of her jeans. "Ros-rosalind."_

 _"Rosalind? I'm Sam." He offered a warm smile and pulled his own knees towards his chest. "Where are you from?"_

 _"Mommy says not to talk to strangers…" Rosalind whispered wearily, her eyes gone wide. Sam kept his smile in place._

 _"I'm from Kansas. My brother said I was Dorothy, but that would make him Toto."_

 _At that, the girl giggled. A second later she burrowed into his side, forcing his arm out of the way. Could anyone possibly trust that fast? He swallowed the lump growing in his throat and gripped Rosalind's shoulder, holding her impossibly closer._

 _"…I heard them talking about going to a tsirk," she gasped, pressing her upturned nose into his plaid shirt. He frowned._

 _"What's a tsirk?"_

 _"It's a circus. My daddy's Russian and he taught me and in Russian that's how they say circus and I don't want to go to the circus, they have clowns there, I hate clowns because they break their nose and tell you to pinch it…" She stifled a sob._

 _His expression changed nearly instantly – drawn back, guarded, anxious. His cheek twitched._

 _Rosalind sniffed, sounding a second from full-scale wailing, "S-s-Sam, are you a Catholic? I mean, a Christian? Or anything? I mean, Mommy says some people are Buddhists, but I don't know what a Buddhist does…"_

 _He forced himself to rein in whatever he was feeling. "More a Christian than anything, I guess."_

 _"Well… Would you pray? Mom tells me to pray to Saint Nicholas but it hasn't been working and am I allowed to bypass and talk to God? Because I'd rather ask God…"_

 _"Yeah, kid. Pretty sure you can bypass." Sam looked down as Rosalind pulled back, watching him. He put a hand on the side of her face and brushed the sweaty strands of hair away from her eyes. "We can pray together."_

 _She took Sam's hands and clasped them together, then did the same with her own and bowed her head. "Hey God, I'm sorry I'm bypassing Nicholas, can you tell him not to be sad? Anyways, my friend and I want to go home, Mommy and Daddy must be worried sick and – oh, Sam's brother is Toto and Toto would have been lost without Dorothy…"_

Present Day

Sam stopped talking as his throat constricted. He shut his eyes and looked away, his face turned towards the restaurant window. Dean didn't speak; he was letting him figure things out, letting Sam fish through his thoughts in the quiet. Well, it wasn't quiet – dishes were clattering together, voices were rising as everyone held their own conversation… The young man sighed. He turned back, meeting green eyes. "Rosalind, was… When we came to the dock I saw her taken towards one of the vans on the right. I… I haven't seen her since. She's probably dead." His voice took on a flat tone, an attempt to hide the pain.

"…Sounds like she got to check on Saint Nick herself."

Sam laughed at that, even if it was more of a huff. He looked down at his hands as he wrung them together.

"It was the first day of the circus…"

 _1996, December 20th_

 _"Ochen khorosho."_

 _"Da. Gde mal'chik?"_

 _"Zdes'."_

 _Sam was being shoved forward, the black hood ripped off of his head. The light was blinding and he squinted against it, trying to turn away from it only to be pushed forward again. He pushed back with his bound hands, scowling._

 _"Ah – Sam? I have heard much about you. Alina!" The man who had spoken looked over his shoulder, waiting for someone. When he looked back, Sam saw his face for the first time. He had a goatee, narrow black eyes, and pale skin. He was bald. "Alina will begin your training. You will be taught with the others – I will give you advice, because I like you – don't make friends of them. Watch out for yourself, not for them." With that, he was waved off and then pushed into a group of men dressed entirely in black, and a woman stood just behind him, her hand on his shoulder. He kept catching a glimpse of her long, red nails and spider-like fingers. He was shoved and pulled and herded – and he hated every second of it. If he didn't get out in the next few seconds, he would start throwing punches. Actually, forget that, he would start throwing punches now. He grabbed Alina's hand and twisted until he heard a crack, it was self-defense, he reminded himself, and then lunged at the closest man. He caught someone on the jaw, and not a second later pain blossomed in his solar plexus. He sputtered and choked, doubling over, but not before he took a knee to the abdomen._

 _He groaned as black spots altered his perception of the world. Somewhere to his left he heard cheering, but he was being dragged in the opposite direction._

 _The next thing Sam knew was that he had been deposited onto a very, very colorful floor. Tiles of green, red, blue and pink. He glared at them and tried to stand up, only to have a hand fisted in the back of his jacket tug him back onto his feet anyway._

 _"Training starts today. Two meals a day – if you miss a meal, you don't eat. You will be shown where you sleep from now on out. Those being trained for the physical acts, line up at the blue door. Those for the mental acts, the red door. Those for both, the green."_

 _More of the well-dressed men came into the room, taking each person to their designated door. Sam held his breath._

 _He was taken to the green door._

 _Of course. Because he had Winchester luck._

 _Music began to play through the speakers as they filed through their respective doors, not knowing what fate awaited their arrival on the other side. The music was… rock, Sam decided. Probably just to keep the guards amused while they waited for the whole scene to play out and finish. Were more groups going to come after Sam's? How often did this happen? Was no one trying to stop this? He bit down on his tongue as he stepped into another dark room._

 _Soon, lights were coming online, yellow lights. Stairs stretched on for what seemed to be an eternity, taking them into a cavernous subbasement._

Present Day

"How long did the training last?" Dean's voice broke into the story, making it come to an abrupt stop.

"Six months and two days. I counted." Sam deadpanned.

His brother rubbed at his now-closed eyes, "Keep going."

 _1997, February 5th_

 _It was unusually hot and miserable in Section A. Sam resisted the urge to take off his jacket. He wore black pants and a simple black hoodie – the clothes that the men were given during the training sessions. His head was pounding like a drum, his face decorated with bruises and scratches given to him by his current bodyguard. The bodyguards weren't allowed to join the sessions though, blessedly, otherwise he was pretty sure he was explode._

 _There was only one player left other than himself. Anatoly. Of course, that wasn't the boy's original name – but it was the one that he had been given once training had started. They had all been given other names, and they had all had their names tattooed somewhere on their body. Sam had 'Piotr'. This teen had 'Anatoly', and what he knew about this guy was that he could control snakes. And if Sam knew his captures at all, or his trainers for that matter, then he knew they had given Anatoly plenty to work with._

 _Quite a few people had been killed during the training._

 _Sam did not intent to be among those._

 _He steadied his breathing and counted his steps as he made his way down the white hallway, heading for the split corridor at the end. Left or right? He would go left. As he turned the corner, he checked to make sure there were no traps – the walls were smooth, no cracks, no dents, same with the floor and the roof. No traps. It was safe, as long as Anatoly hadn't put copperheads in the vents…_

 _By the time that they found each other, several hours had passed. Snakes were slithering down the walls and across the floor, hissing echoed through the room. Sam tensed, falling into a fighter's stance. He could deal with the snakes and let his guard down from wherever Anatoly was hiding, or, he could focus on finding the snakes' source, their master, and eliminate the major threat. But then, he would have to avoid being bitten. Usually, it came down to how decisive one could be when they neared the end of the match. How quickly they could make a choice, and how good that choice was._

 _Well, he had gone through the green door. He had never tried it before, but it was worth a shot; taking on both the snakes and the other boy at the same time._

 _He focused, picturing both the reptiles and his fellow trainee._

 _That day, he had learned not to think of doing two different things._

 _That day, instead of bending the energy in the snakes, he bent the energy in Anatoly._

 _That day, he almost had his first human kill._

 _1997, May 2nd_

 _It was his coming of age. That morning was different. There was no training, and no one visited him until the afternoon. Even his bodyguard was absent. He tried to find something to do, but that's rather hard when you have a 10x10 room with nothing in it but a bedroll. Well, he had a bathroom attached to his quarters, but it was just the basic essentials. Literally, the basic._

 _Happy fourteenth birthday, loser. Sam sighed._

 _When his trainer did come in, it was much later than usual. Hours and hours and half of the day later. Two bodyguards followed her inside. She was holding a vile in her spindly hand – already he had a bad feeling about the whole situation, and dread sank like a rock in his gut. He backed up, fists clenched. "You're late."_

 _"Just thought we let you sleep in on birthday," Alina smiled, sickly sweet. He tried not to gag._

 _"What is this?" No, not the more pressing question. "What is that? You said no more drugs. I'm not supposed to get any more drugs."_

 _"It's something to… amplify your gifts. It will give you advantage over the others." Alina turned to the two men and motion them forward, and the stepped inside._

 _"Four's a crowd," Sam snapped, trying for a dismissive smirk._

 _"Hold him down," Alina instructed._

 _They grabbed his arms and shoved his back against the wall – he was already calling on his powers, focusing on bringing them up. "I will kill you. I_ will _kill them. You know I can," Sam warned, angry, and struggling against the guards._

 _"Yes – but, well… Your powers are… less dependable than the gifts of the others. Less dependable, more… like a disaster bottled up inside of you. A disaster just waiting to break. To explode. This will help you control them."_

 _Sam glared as she popped the top off of the container, walking towards him. Alina had a gift, too, and he knew it – he couldn't get out alive if he did fight. Maybe it was worth it. If he died, so be it, better than giving up and giving in, so he would…_

 _His chin was forced up, the vile liquid poured into his throat. He sputtered just as a hand clamped over his mouth._

 _It was tangy and metallic and he recognized it, because how could he not? It was blood. They were feeding him blood. He gagged after reflexively swallowing._

 _He would kill them. One day, he would kill them._


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: All right, so I realize now that I am a horrible person and if you want to burn me on the pyre I understand... *Hides* And upon re-reading the story I realize that ALL OF MY STARS FOR CHARACTER SWITCHES ARE JUST GONE. *Groans* Why, Fanfiction, why...**

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 _1997, January 24th_

 _Dad's gone. The realization stung, but Dean pushed that feeling away - John must have found something relating to the thing that killed his mother and that's why he left in the middle of the night. He wasn't tired of Dean, he didn't blame him for the disappearance of Sam (because he refused to believe that charred body was his innocent, wide-eyed little brother), he didn't hate him, he was just... hunting. Just hunting. Dean calmed the beating of his heart with deep breaths, hating that he assumed anything that marred his father's character. John Winchester was a hero, and Dean made him proud. That had to count for a lot. But... It didn't count at all. He felt nothing but an emptiness hollowing out his chest._

 _He missed his brother. It was his fault, he should have, he should have done something more... Hatred was the bile churning in his gut and climbing up his throat. He hated his birthday, he hated that Sam was gone, he hated that he could have done something to prevent that, he hated that his father had up and left without a word in the middle of the night, the night before his remaining son's birthday, he hated that the world was full of real, actual, crawl-out-from-under-your-bed monsters... He hated. That was all there was to it now - he hated._

 _He packed his things and he left the ugly motel behind, his heart falling as he saw that his father hadn't left him any kind of vehicle. He would just take a bus, or walk, just get anywhere else as long as he was out of this horrible town. The weight in his chest was worse than if he had swallowed a bag of lava rocks, and the fear, though he would hate to admit it, rattled him to his bones. He didn't want to be alone, he would take anything but this loneliness. Someone save me from this... But, he only had himself, and if he couldn't even save his brother, and he wasn't enough for his father, how could he hope to be anything to himself? He was nothing, to anyone._

 _..._ "I didn't hear from Dad for another two months. He had heard of someone seeing yellow-eyes in Austria, so he got a ticket and left the country."

Sam's eyes widened and Dean could see the thoughts behind them, as plain as day. "That's horrible, Dean. I'm sorry you had to go through that."

Dean tried to shrug it off, both physically and verbally, "I got on just fine, even took on some hunts myself."

The younger's jaw dropped, and it seemed to take him a moment to process. "You hunted by yourself?! You were seventeen!"

"Eighteen."

Pursing his lips, Sam frowned, his eyebrows drawing together. He looked overall unhappy. He didn't say anything else for the time being, though, only focused on the salad that was in front of him, stabbing at it with his fork as though it could pay for the crimes committed against the two young men. Dean smirked, "You gonna eat that or just keep jabbing at it?"

Frustrated, Sam blew right past his brother's comment, "I just can't believe Dad would do that. That's not right." He threw his silverware down and looked out the window, staring at the street. He sighed and met Dean's gaze. "I missed having you around. You were always my rock."

"...That's a lot of past-tenses, Sammy."

Sam huffed a laugh, but no humor was held in the sound. "I know. I just don't know how any of this is going to work out now. So much has changed - I have changed, a lot. I can't even explain some of the horrors I've seen, I don't know where to begin. I don't even want to talk about this, I just know you deserve an explanation."

"If you don't want to explain it right now, it can wait. Truth be told, I don't know where to even start scratching the surface." Dean leaned back and momentarily closed his eyes.

"I think that would be best. We could meet here once a week, just to talk. If you want. If you don't, though, of course, that's fine, I just thought..."

Dean put up a hand to stop the younger man's rambling. "Yeah, that sounds good. I've had some tough times too, Sam, and I want you to know that I'll understand. If I can't, I'll try to. Just be honest with me. I'll be honest with you." His brother dipped his head in agreement and then wolfed down what was left of his meal, pulling out his wallet and setting a tip on the table. He put it back in his pocket and began sliding out from behind the table, off of the bench seat.

"Here, if you need anything," Sam paused, rifling through his front pocket and pulling out a ballpoint pen, grabbing one of the table napkins and writing his cell's number on it. "Anything at all. Just call."

"I will."

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Several hours had passed since the meeting, and in that time Sam had tried to write. For the most part, he had failed. He didn't know why he seemed to have such trouble doing so, but, he had gotten about two paragraphs in his book and then... nothing. His mind started drawing blank after blank, leaving him irritated and exhausted. Writing shouldn't make someone so tired, he mused, but it tended to.

 _Tyler pressed the needle up against his skin, pushing it in and pressing down on the syringe. He had nothing else but this, whatever this was. The man intended on..._

Sam dropped his head onto the desk. The thing about writing a book following an addict as the main character was, it was majorly depressing. Which was just what he needed, of course... He picked his head up only to drop it back down, repeating the action several times as though it could give him inspiration and the will to go on with this novel, or more accurately, with life in and of itself. He would be fine, he knew that. After all this time, he learned to keep going, even if he had to scrape by using tooth-and-nail, scratching-clawing-biting sort of methods.

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Dean paced the hotel room, ignoring how the golden lights burned his eyes. What exactly was he supposed to do now? Find a hunt? Would that be a stupid idea, especially after just learning that his brother was alive, and trying to piece together what had happened to the young man? Maybe this was the hunt he was currently on. But for the time being, there was no more research he could do. So instead, he just... Walked. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until his muscles began to ache...

He snatched his phone from the oak desk by the single bed and sat down on the mattress, taking a moment to study the intricate patterns on the blankets and pillows. Yellow and brown swirls on a white backdrop... Yeah. That was it. He punched in Sam's number and held the cell to his ear. Nope. He moved it away and pushed 'end', tossing the phone away from himself and lying back with a sigh.

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Sam crossed his arms after closing his laptop. He made a face at the grimy wall across from himself. He stood up and stepped inside the cramped bathroom, thought about shaving, realized the uselessness of that action at the time, moved back out and into the main room. He started pacing, one foot in front of the other. He didn't have to work today, and his shift for to-morrow was relatively short. Which, in his case, was a very bad thing, because if there was one thing he didn't like, it was being bored and pent up like an animal.

Or a circus freak.

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Dean redialed the number and waited.

"Piotr."

"Hey, Sam."

"Hey - something wrong?"

"Yeah, maybe we could... meet back up?"

"Thank God - I mean, yes. See you in twenty."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Thank you for the new follows and favorites, I'm glad someone is still reading this even after my... My... unintentional hiatus.**

It had been a day since they had spoken on the phone, and ever since then, they had ended up talking in a single motel room, and neither had ended up moving to a separate one. Sam, for his part, had fallen asleep at some point, though he couldn't exactly pinpoint in his memories when that had happened. He just remembered listening to Dean talk about some of his solo hunts, and then... nothing. Just a lot of darkness. The young man drifted in and out of sleep, between dreams and stretches of peace. It was nice to have that. To have... peace.

 _It's a long way, to the top - if you wanna rock 'n roll..._

The sound pulled Sam out of sleep, but he didn't move. Must have been Dean's alarm... By the commotion that followed - grunting, flapping, the bed's springs creaking dangerously - he would say that his guess was correct. The song shut off abruptly and he heard his brother sigh, grab something that sounded like cloth, probably a duffel bag, and head into the bathroom. Not a minute later the shower head turned off, a high-pitched screech in his ears. He took a breath and his hazel eyes opened, staring up at the roof. He was on the floor, hands resting on his stomach.

Rolling over, he stood up and stepped to the bathroom door, rapping his fingers against the white painted wood. "Hey Dean?"

"Yeah?" The elder's voice was muted by running water.

"I have a shift, I gotta go. We can talk later."

For a moment, the shower turned off and Dean spoke clearly, "Keep your phone on you."

Sam smiled, his expression distant. "Okay, Dad, will do." He shook his head, still smiling, and started off towards the exit, trying to gain the determination to sit through five boring hours of standing behind a desk. Before he even left the room, Dean's head peeked out from around the bathroom door, his wet hair in disarray and his eyes opened wide, "Sam, we can hit the road again. Just you and me. Hunting again. Scully and Mulder."

The younger brother's heart dropped into his stomach - he had just started a life here, he had worked so hard to get away from that horrible place and now... now... He didn't know if he could deal with killing monsters for the rest of his life. Not after all he had gone through the past through years, all that he had seen. "Dean..." he began, his tone filled with inflections tipping his brother off to the rest of the sentence. Before he could finish, though, his sibling held up a hand to stop him,

"Just think about it. You can give me your answer tonight."

With that, he closed the door - punctually.

Sam frowned in displeasure and disappointment. He didn't want to lose Dean again.

"Oh - and _I'm_ Mulder!" Dean called.

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes, but didn't stop a grin from spreading across his face.

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It was only mid-day when Sam got off of work, and by then, well... He still hadn't made up his mind. He was going to meet Dean at a local diner for lunch, but he didn't have his answer yet. Although, he decided, Dean had told him he had until tonight, and he would wait until then. Jogging, the young man tried to speed up his pace - he was late for their meeting, he knew, but no one had come for the shift-change. He had waited for his manager to come into the main room and explained the situation before clocking out and by then, it was already twenty minutes passed when he had told his brother on the phone that they could meet for lunch.

He tried to take a short cut, only to be struck with the realization that it was a dead end, and he had to double back to take the long way. Oh, how this was not turning out as he had hoped it would. At least it would give him time to think about what he would say to Dean; could he get back to hunting now? What if a demon recognized him as the Devil boy who had sent him back to Hell? But then again, what if he said no - what would he do with himself? College seemed... both too much, and too little. He couldn't stay working at a motel forever, but then again he didn't quite know... He didn't know what he would do.

Footsteps behind him caught his attention, but only for a second. He paid them little mind as he continued to jog, hoping to make it to the diner before Dean gave up on him. More footsteps joined in - the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He couldn't ignore them anymore, and so, he turned down a street he wouldn't have normally gone down, waiting to see what they would do. They followed, staying a few yards behind at all times. With that, he decided that all hopes of getting to the meeting were dashed. He pulled his cell phone from his back pocket, not slowing down for a second, and dialed his brother's number. It rang twice before anyone picked up.

"You better have broken a leg or gotten amnesia, 'cause I've been waiting here for a good half hour."

"I've got a pretty good excuse," he started, somewhat winded from his running, "right now I've got a tail."

"A rabbit sort of tail or a Klingon tail?"

Sam huffed, "Rabbits don't have tails."

"Yeah they do, they have those tiny little fluffy... No, seriously - rabbit or Klingon?"

"Klingon." Sam chanced a look over his shoulder to see three rather burly men trundling after him, but despite their size, they didn't appear to be struggling to keep up with him in the least. "Three big guys, don't think they're demons."

"Where are you?"

Sam looked around at his surrounds. "Just passed a Baker Court. It's just a few miles from the diner. I'll try to lose them."

"Be there in ten."

He closed the phone and stuffed it into his back pocket before speeding up, taking another turn and heading for the first building he saw, which so happened to be a gas station. He bolted, hoping to outpace the three men for just long enough. Taking a glance over his shoulder, he could see the men chugging after him, but losing ground quickly. He ran across the street and to the pumps, ducking behind one that was in use. A tall, gangly man gave him a strange look as he filled up his vehicle's tank.

"Hey buddy," Sam began, "Can I get you to do something for me?"

"Uh... You're not one of those... those... you know..." the fellow waved a hand in an all-encompassing gesture. Sam's eyebrows drew together and he tilted his head to one side not unlike a bird, confused. When it hit him, he swallowed, a look between horror and discomfort coming over him,

"No. I just need you to wear my jacket."

"...Sure, I can do that."

Hurrying as much as he could, Sam tore his jacket off and handed it over. The other man shrugged and pulled it on. With that, Sam left the station, going around the other side of the building and into the woods. It was as though he had stepped into a whole different world, one with brilliantly colored flowers and old trees that had grown far taller than any of the buildings behind him.

He pulled his phone out and dialed Dean, waiting for him to pick up.

"Yeah?"

"I'm behind the gas station on Lafayette street. I'll wait here - I think I..."

Pain blossomed in his head, as though a mirror had exploded inside of his head and glass penetrated into his skull. He collapsed to his knees and dropped the phone, not sure if he had cried out or not - in fact, he wasn't sure if he had even dropped the cell. He wasn't sure of much by this point, except for the agony behind his eyes. He reached for the back of his head, and just as he did something struck out again, slamming against both his fingers and his neck. He fell forward, darkness pressing against his flesh like a blanket made of ice.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Okay, well, all I have to say about this one is... Bobby! I'll leave it at that, and I hope you enjoy.**

 _"I'm behind the gas station on Lafayette street. I'll wait here - I think I..."_

 _Pain blossomed in his head, as though a mirror had exploded inside of his forehead and glass penetrated into his skull. He collapsed to his knees and dropped the phone, not sure if he had cried out or not - in fact, he wasn't sure if he had even dropped the cell. He wasn't sure of much by this point, except for the agony behind his eyes. He reached for the back of his head, and just as he did something struck out again, slamming against both his fingers and his neck. He fell forward, darkness pressing against his flesh like a blanket made of ice._

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When Dean arrived at Lafayette street, he couldn't find his brother anywhere. He had searched inside the gas station, behind it, in front of it, around the gas pumps, the bathroom, even the ugly blue outhouse - which was a thing he would never do again, because it smelled about as fragrant as a two day old corpse. He jogged back to the Impala, opening the door and pausing before getting in. He took one last glance over the area then frowned, his jaws clenching. There was a camera attached to the roof of the building, maybe it had captured something. It was the only lead he had for the moment, and so, he closed the car door and headed back towards the station dutifully. He already had an FBI badge on him, and so, he flashed it in the cashier's face and demanded he see the video footage from half an hour ago.

The tape showed very little, except he did get a glimpse of Sam switching jackets with someone and then heading off to the woods. Well, that was something. If he had to searched all of the forest, then so be it, there was no way he was losing his sibling for a second time. Not if it meant having to wait for another, what, seventeen years before he saw him again? Anger boiled in his veins. Whoever had done this was going to regret the day they put a target on Sam's back. At that thought, Dean's mind reeled - he didn't even know why they were doing this, and who they were. More demons? Monsters?

He gritted his teeth and opened the trunk, taking out his .45 and putting it in the waistband of his jeans. He proceeded to snatch other weapons he could possibly use, cramming them into a duffel bag and swinging it over his shoulder. He shut and locked the trunk, putting the keys in his front pocket before jogging to the side of the gas station, heading around back and into the trees. It was afternoon by this point, and he wondered just how far he could get before the sun went down entirely. He had to find Sam. He should have known something was wrong from how long he had been waiting at that diner, assuming that his brother had just gotten extra work at the motel. His stomach churned. He would never make that mistake again, not if he could help it. John had always taught him to be prepared, be proactive, and never presume to know what's really real.

There were signs of a struggle - no, not a struggle. A drag. Marks led off down a trail path, drag marks, wide and deep enough to be his gigantor of a brother. He followed them, taking his handgun out and keeping his finger above the trigger and the barrel aimed at the ground.

"...Gah!"

The sound made his muscles flinch and he quietly changed course, moving behind the trees, just out of sight. He kept walking. He could hear a thick scraping sound, no doubt Sam being hauled across the forest floor.

"On...yavlyayetsya... slishkom tyazhelym."

"Da... Muzhchina. Saskvatch."

Dean had moved fast enough to cut them off, and he stepped out in front of them, .45 pointed at the bigger of the three who stood just behind the others. They looked mildly shocked, but all of them reacted at the same time - reaching for guns, no doubt. "Don't," Dean warned, racking the slide back. In slow motions, they put their hands up, simultaneously dropping Sam, whose head collided with the dirt. Dean winced in sympathy. "Who - what - are you?"

"We are... just paid to do this. Don't shoot us, yes? We work for The Carnival. He is... D'yavol Muzhchina. We are just doing our jobs."

Dean scowled. He hated the carnival, maybe more than monsters. "Why did they pay you to take him?"

"He is D'yavol Muzchina. The Escaped Freak. The one that left. They have come to America, and want him back."

Bile burned Dean's throat. Great. "You work for me now, if you want to walk away with your lives. If you tell the carnival? I will hunt you down, and kill you like I kill any other monster. Got it? And Piotr? D'yavol mush-whatever? His name is Sam. My little brother." He twitched the barrel of his .45, motioning for them to take a step back from the unconscious figure. They immediately did. "Who's running this freak show?"

"His name is Toly. Anatoly Ivanovich," the shortest man said, "When Piot-uh-Sam? Was with carnival, they place trackers in all of them. When we arrived in the states, Toly told us to follow where the device said to go. It's how we found him."

"How exactly did he... 'escape'?" Dean couldn't help himself - he was too curious, and Sam had avoided that topic like the black plague.

"He killed the former leader. With... some psychic thing. Exploded his head from the inside out, or, that's what they say."

Unnerved, Dean tried to shake off the image. He had known about Sam's... abilities, or at least, Bobby had told him about them when Dean still thought he was Piotr. Now? The connection was just starting to click in his head. How was it even possible? The kid he had practically raised could do something like that - and apparently, not just to demons. He had thought it was just to demons. A chill ran down his spine.

"Why do they want him back so bad, anyway?"

"They want him to drink demon blood, or something. That's what Toly said. Said he gets his powers from drinking demon blood."

Dean felt sick. He definitely did not want to know that, much less have that picture in his head for the rest of his life... "You are going to help me get sasquatch back to my car, and then you're going to give me your cell numbers, and I'm going to tell you exactly. What. You are going to do."

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Fuzzy images greeted Sam when he opened his eyes - and then pain, pounding at the back of his skull like an 808 drum. "Ugh..." He reached up a hand, feeling in a daze, and gingerly touched the aching spot. His face pinched in pain and he wrinkled his nose, then tried to clear the picture in front of him by blinking rapidly. A roof came into view - but not the one he expected. It wasn't that of a grimy, stained motel. Sam shook his head and frowned even more, rolling over, only to almost roll right off of the edge of a leather couch. He grunted and moved his legs underneath of himself, standing, wobbling, then falling back down to a sitting position on the seat.

"Dean?" He tried, his voice dry and raspy. He licked his cracked lips and cleared his throat before trying again, "Dean?"

A face peered from around a corner, familiar green eyes and spiked hair coming into view. Sam cringed and gripped the back of his head as if it would ease the discomfort there. "What's going on?"

"Nice to see you open your eyes, sleeping beauty." Dean's loud voice was like thunder in Sam's ears. He groaned and held up his free hand, whispering,

"Too loud."

His brother appeared by his side, helping him stand and stay on his feet once there. He wasn't sure how it happened, but he seemed to teleport from the living room and into a kitchen. This house looked very, very familiar, but he just couldn't place why, at least, not in the current state he was in. A grilled sandwich was pushed under his nose then placed on the table in front of him, followed by the command to 'eat'. He obeyed that, finding his mouth salivating at the very smell and thought of a warm meal.

"I explained everything to Bobby, about the carnival and you. He's just out getting some things, he'll be back in a jiffy. At least, that's what he said. 'Don't go nowhere, boy, I'll be back in a jiffy.'" Dean's voice changed into a deeper octave, mimicking Bobby's accent. Sam's mouth gaped and he nearly lost a chunk of sandwich in the process - the pieces began sliding back into place. This was Bobby's house, he was at Bobby's. He had been injured. Hit in the head by... One of those three tattooed men that had been following him.

Bobby's house was in South Dakota, if Sam remembered right from his younger memories

They had been in Florida.

The drive was over twenty-seven hours long, even with Dean driving.

"How..."

"I know what you're thinking, how'd we get here. Well, you took a pretty bad hit. I thought you had a brain bleed for a little while, but I guess your ugly mug just needed _a lot_ of beauty sleep. Oh, and those Klingons? Were from The Carnival. Apparently, you have a tracking device in you. Bobby and I have been warding the house and trying to find better ways to prepare in case they show up here, but for now, it's been all clear. We just need you to tell us where exactly this device is so we can... you know... take it out."

That was... Too much information for his fried brain to take in all at once. He clacked his teeth together and swallowed, trying not to feel woozy, especially after having practically inhaled that meal. Just when he thought he couldn't make sense of things, the main door opened and a minute later in came Bobby - he looked almost exactly the same as Sam remembered him. Baseball cap, plaid, vest, jeans, boots, unhappy look on his face... A few moments after Sam spotted him, Bobby made eye contact with the young man.

"Sam."

"Bobby."

Another breath - Dean even looked to be holding his - and then Sam's face lit up with a dimpled grin. He rose from his chair before vertigo hit him. He placed a palm on the table and mouthed 'whoa' as the world spun. Bobby's arms wrapped around him, squeezing the breath from his lungs. Sam returned the embrace, finding it odd that his dizziness passed just as soon as Bobby hugged him. The older man slapped him on the back before pulling away and looking him over. "It's good to see you, Sam."

"You too. I never really thought I'd see you again, not after..."

"I chased your daddy off with a shotgun?"

Sam laughed. "Yeah."

Bobby smiled and clapped him on the shoulder before going around the table and setting groceries down. "You took a pretty good hit to the head, thought we'd have to take you to the hospital for a while there."

"I always bounce back."

"No kidding," Dean squeezed his comment in before popping the cap off of a beer and taking a swig. Sam found himself feeling... safe. Cared for. Part of something. He shook those thoughts and feelings off and then sat back down, sniffing deeply and running a hand through his hair.

"So, our priority number one - getting the tracker out of 'ya. That needs to happen before my house gets overrun by clowns and acrobats."

Sam shuddered, his eyes growing wide. Clowns. Dean, on the other hand, laughed through a mouthful of food at his brother's reaction - "Clowns with giant red afros and footie pajamas." Sam shot him a death glare.

"Guys," Sam began, cautious, "There's gonna be a problem with getting the tracker out. It's sort of... Well..."

"Yeah?" Dean encouraged.

"In my tongue. In... my throat." he raised his chin and put a hand on his neck, tracing a scar.

Bobby swore, and Dean seconded that. "How even...?" Dean growled and slammed a fist on the table.

"Don't take your anger out on my table," Bobby reprimanded, frowning.

"Sorry Bobby. How did they do that?"

"They had one of the Gifted help. She had the power to... I don't know... blood bend?"

Dean shuddered visibly. "Great. So they've got Hama in their pocket, and we've got a demon-killing Melinda Gordon."

Sam gave him a strange look and huffed. "She's dead now anyways. And I don't think taking this out is a good idea." Sam stood up, ignoring the wave of dizziness and turning towards the direction of the living room, "Thank you for helping us, Bobby." And with that, he vanished into the next room, leaving both Bobby and Dean to their confusion.

The younger Winchester collapsed on the couch and did his best to forget the past decade and a half.


	13. Chapter 13

_Sam gave him a strange look and huffed. "She's dead now anyways. And I don't think taking this out is a good idea." Sam stood up, ignoring the wave of dizziness and turning towards the direction of the living room, "Thank you for helping us, Bobby." And with that, he vanished into the next room, leaving both Bobby and Dean to their confusion._

 _The younger Winchester collapsed on the couch and did his best to forget the past decade and a half._

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Dean had left to change the oil on one of Bobby's many vehicles while Bobby made calls and researched, all for the sake of finding a way to take the tracker out. That left Sam to fend for himself, and so, he simply tried not to think. He had played a game of chess with his own self, made a sandwich, ate said sandwich, checked on Dean, checked on Bobby, had a beer, then did it all over again. Then, he snapped.

The man stood off of the couch, nearly dropping his glass in the process. He set it down on a coffee table and hurried towards the door, stepping out into what he expected to be sun, only to find the day had clouded severely since the last time he had wandered outside. He could see Dean's legs from underneath of one of the cars and approached quietly, stopping a few feet away.

"Sam, pass me that - that," Dean's voice came from underneath the vehicle and he pointed at something with his toe. Sam picked up the oil filter and crouched down, ducking his head even farther as he passed it to his brother. It was snatched from his hand and disappeared into the shadows. Sam didn't stand back up, instead he rocked back onto his haunches.

"I need to talk to you."

"Talk away," Dean replied, his voice somewhat muted and followed by a series of clicks and clunks.

"I never gave you my answer about hunting." He swallowed, his face flinching as though he expected some abuse. There was a beat of silence from his sibling, followed by a muttered,

"This doesn't bode well."

Sam took a breath and clasped his hands, wringing them together. He had thought about this. He was making the right decision. "I can't."

Dean's disappointment was tangible, Sam could practically taste it in the air. The other man rolled out from beneath the car and sat up, oblivious of the black smudge across his cheek. "Why? If you're worried about the credit card scams, we can take to hustling. Or, we can always get odds-and-ends jobs in the towns, see how that works out." Sam laughed quietly and looked down at his hands,

"That's not it. You just..." He pursed his lips and pinched the bridge of his nose before squaring his shoulders and meeting Dean in the eye, "you can't trust me to have your back. I'm just... not good partner material, not anymore. Not that I ever was." Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Sam stopped him before he could continue, "Just! Just hear me out, man. I don't want to be the reason you end up hurt, or worse. I barely remember any of Dad's training, the only skills I have are for the carnival acts - demons all tend to have a chip on their shoulder against me... There are just too many variables that add up to, well, bad things. Things that I can't control unless I don't start hunting with you. I'm an ex-addict, I can't... be around their blood." Wait - Dean didn't know about that, did he? Sam felt his stomach twist. He didn't know how he would explain it...

"Yeah, the demon blood? I heard. We won't hunt demons, then. There are plenty of other hunters that will, and plenty of other monsters that need to be ganked as it is."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief - if nothing else, Dean knew about his former addiction. At least he didn't have to hide that, or even explain it, it seemed. "But Dean, there are still so many things that could go wrong. Because of me. I just... I can't."

Something changed in Dean's demeanor. He nodded curtly and went back under the vehicle, and up started the thunks and ticks once more. Sam buried his discouragement and stood up, spinning on a heel and heading back towards Bobby's house. That was when the door flung open, revealing a wide-eyed Bobby carrying a shotgun. Sam's senses went on alert, and Dean appeared by his shoulder in only a moment's notice. "We've got a problem - looks like the clowns tracked you here. They have vans out front."

The brothers rushed inside, Bobby following suit, and headed to the front. Sam was the first to arrive at the porch, his heart thundering. Men in circus outfits lined up outside, five rows of fifteen each. Despite the ridiculous outfits, Sam knew exactly how they worked - they were all killers, and they were all well trained. Just as he had been. He knew that he, Bobby and Dean had an obvious disadvantage; they couldn't just kill people. But they couldn't sit around and let whatever was going to happen, happen. He knew that. Bobby knew that. Dean knew that. But what none of them really knew, was what they were going to do.

"If you don't want your clown-suits full of buckshot, you'll get off my property," Bobby warned, aiming the shotgun in his hands. The people didn't move, of course.

From the second row a man pushed his way into the front, stepping towards the porch. He was medium build and wore a black suit, a double-bladed sword in his hand. He had a short beard and a hawk-shaped nose, and what looked to be a permanent frown glued onto his face. "All we want is Piotr."

Dean stepped forward, using one arm to push Sam behind him. The younger brother frowned, but didn't fight the action. "You're gonna have to go through me first."

"If we must, then we must," The man, no doubt Toly, spoke, his accent thick. He swung the blades and held them at an angle in front of his torso, dropping into a fencing stance. "But my offer still stands. Hand him over, and we will leave. You will never see us again."

"Yeah," Dean growled, "That's the problem. You see, seven years ago, my brother had the flu." By this point, everyone was looking at him - Toly in confusion, Sam in curiosity. "I went to get something, I left him alone. I came back and he was gone. I thought he was dead, my dad thought he was dead. Neither of us ever said it out loud - we searched for him, and we hunted monsters, and we never talked about it. We barely got through the grief. And then, Dad died. I was at the end of my rope. Then, I found out my brother was sold, _sold_ , to a Russian carnival. His identity was stripped away, he was forced to kill and act and do your bidding, and now? Now he's back. And there is no way I'm leaving him alone a second time. Because you know," he paused, his voice turning dangerous, "he's all I've got left. If he dies, I die."

Sam swallowed, staring at his sibling.

"So be it."

 **A/N: This one is fairly short, so I apologize for that, but I was in a big rush and I actually have places to go today, so, hopefully I'll be able to write another chapter soon... Thank you for reading.**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: And so... I was a bit off my game during the last chapter, but I hope this one is more satisfying! Enjoy.**

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The fighting started not an instant after Toly spoke those words, not unlike a tornado of sudden movement. Bobby, always true to his word, blasted several of the men and women in the front with rock alt - all right, so, it wasn't buckshot as he may have promised them, but it was still something, and an excellent alternative to killing humans, if Sam had anything to say about it. Dean tackled one of the closer clowns, punching him into unconsciousness. While the two hunters busied themselves with bringing down the cronies, Sam had set his eyes on another goal:

Bringing down Anatoly. He walked down the stairs and straight down the main path, his eyes locked on the other man's. Toly dropped into a fighting stance, swinging the metal double-bladed sword in front of his torso. Sam bent down to take his hunting knife from where he had stuffed it in his boot, then dropped into a stance of his own, watching as Toly began circling around him. He began the action as well. "Pohchemu?" (Why?) Sam asked, reverting to Russian.

"You were the perfect act. Something new, freakish, the crowds loved your stage persona - why did you leave? You had everything. You had become his favorite, his prize. You were given whatever you wanted." Toly said, turning to his own tongue just as the young Winchester had done.

"Except freedom." Sam lashed out, only to be met by a blade swinging towards his arm. He dodged, moving fluidly and placing one hand against Toly's back and following the figure's every movement, keeping behind the circus master as Toly practically executed a pirouette. "And I lost the most important thing."

Anatoly swung one of the blades over his head and thrust downwards, coming inches from Sam's face. That made the young man leap back several feet, far enough away that a face-to-face fight began again. "What is the most important thing to you, Piotr?"

"Family."

Sam gripped the knife tightly - glad this once for the training he received in the circus, and from his father - and turned, putting his weight on one leg while planting that foot sideways in the dirt, moving his opposite leg up and then kicking, landing a solid blow against Toly's temple. The man grunted and stumbled back, and in his distraction Sam used his opportunity to pop the hunting knife into the man's arm. Toly howled and blocked Sam's punch, and his next, retaliation with a kick of his own. The Winchester caught the outstretched leg under his arm and twisted around, in the process knocking Toly off balance and sending him onto the ground.

"You..." Toly gasped, gripping his bloody arm as he crawled away, "had powers. Had strength. Had glory. I had _nothing_! Nothing but living in your shadow, and the shadows of all those like you - just the guard, the go-to guy. No one cared who I was, but you, you were a rising star."

"I was a puppet. Do you really think I had any choice about what happened to me? About what I did, who I hurt..." Sam ground his teeth and looked off, fists clenching and un-clenching by his sides. "You don't know how lucky you were, Toly. I became a monster. They turned me into a monster. And for a while, I... I embraced it. I could do anything. I was powerful. But no one should have that, not in the way that I did - and it came at too great a cost. Whatever you think I had, whatever you think you've got now, it's all wrong. None of it's true. Just remember that - none of it's true."

"You had everything I could never have! I will. Kill you."

Sam took a deep breath and grounded himself, his eyes rolling up into the back of his skull. He hadn't done this particular... trick in quite some time, but if it would change Toly's mind, show him the truth, then it was worth the risk. He knelt beside the wounded man and reached one hand out, his forefinger and thumb pressing against Toly's forehead and cheek, while is other hand gripped the carnival worker's bicep in a vice. "What are you doing, you freak?! Get away from me, Piotr, get away from me!"

Unbeknownst to Sam, what he was doing had drawn all of the attention onto him. Several of the attackers tried to jump on Sam to take him off of Toly; they were taken out by either Dean or Bobby.

The psychic's head fell back, his eyes opening - and revealing where hazel once was, darkness now possessed completely. His eyes were black.

Anatoly screamed.

 _ **Two years prior**_

 _Sam's arms were pinned down, men having to weigh around the two-hundreds mark sitting on his limbs. His mouth was pried open, cold green eyes staring into his own as slimy liquid was poured down his throat. He did his best not to swallow, but as always, it didn't work. He gagged, pinching his eyes shut and praying it would be over soon. The metallic tang of blood left him both hungry and nauseous, a mixed feeling that was becoming an every-day thing. It was his new normal._

 ** _One year prior_**

 _This would be the last time. The guards watched Sam drink down all of the thick, carmine liquid, none of them saying a single word. How could they just sit by and watch what went on in this place? That, he would never know, and he never wanted to. Anatoly Ivanovich was among the guards that day, and he took the young Winchester in with a look of complete distaste. At this point, Sam couldn't help but feel the same way about himself... He was drinking demon blood, for Pete's sake. It was wrong, and vile, and addicting, and everything he seemed to need and all that he hated in one vile... Because that was all he needed of it these days. Just a vile would give him the power to turn someone inside out. He hated it._

 _What he hated more? That once, not two months ago, he had enjoyed it with everything inside of him. He wasn't quite sure what had changed, maybe the realization of what exactly was happening to him. He was a junkie, a blood junkie. A vampire. Something to be hunted, to be caged, to be put down. Nothing else. That was something that scared him - that he could become that, and all it took was a single container of blood._

 _Today was the last day. Today, he would break free - he would no longer be this... this creature that he had turned into. He would suffer the withdrawal, even if it killed him. It would be worth it, because even death would be a kinder fate. Had his soul been damned? He could only pray to God in Heaven that it wasn't so, that maybe, just maybe, he would be forgiven and cleansed of this evil that had rooted itself in every corner of his being._

 _After he killed half of the guards and the owner of The Carnival, he ran to the closest abandoned warehouse he could find and tried not to acknowledge the crimson soaking his clothes and staining his palms. Flashes of screams, severed limbs and exploding skulls haunted him. He couldn't close his eyes. He couldn't close his eyes and he couldn't sleep and he couldn't think and if this was anything like Hell, he was terrified, because his soul was certainly condemned to an eternity of fire, no less than he deserved..._

 ** _One week later_**

 _Withdrawal tore at every inch of him. He saw Dean, his brother's chest splayed open, revealing half-eaten organs and shattered ribs. Sam had done that. He was a monster, he was worthless, he had caused this, why was he ever born, why... Another seizure struck like lightening, rattling his teeth and sending jolts of pain through his arms and legs. He wanted it to stop. He needed..._

 _He needed help._

 _He needed someone._

 _He had no help._

 _He had no one._

 ** _Two weeks later_**

 _He could remember Christmas. He could recall the smell of cinnamon, overpowering his senses and calming his frayed nerves, and the scent of pine, a warm meal... His father had actually made it to the motel that time. They even had a Christmas tree made of beer cans and wire... Dean was laughing about something that John had said, and their father smirked over the lip of his eggnog filled glass._

 _Then he woke to the sound of his own tortured screams, feeling as they shook his chest. Dry heaving left him shaking, cold and exhausted..._

 _The Carnival had done this, all of it. They had destroyed his life, and even now, now that he was free from them... They were killing him. Just as they had killed Sasha, Josh, Portia, Milik, Vladimir..._

Sam dropped onto his back, releasing Toly. His eyes blinked back into their normal color. He coughed, one hand splayed against his own forehead as he tried desperately to ease the pain there. Dean was already running to him, just finishing a fight with one of the clown henchmen, but a group beat him there. Sam could see spinning, blurred versions of at least three or more people standing above him. They were about to kill him, no doubt. He groaned and rolled onto his side, panting, and tried to gain enough sense and strength to fight back - to fight for his life.

"Ostanovis! Ostanovis!"

It was Anatoly's voice, although Sam couldn't decide if that was a good or bad thing. Still, the other man was yelling at them to stop.

"This is not right. I don't want to be the villain."

Sam flinched when arms scooped his back off the ground, one calloused hand against the nape of his neck and an arm wrapped over his chest, the other hand on his side. "Sammy? Hey. Hey. Stay with me. You need to give me more warning next time you go all psychic-mode on me, I can't take this stress. I think I've gotten a few grey hairs since we've met back up. Hey, Sam?" A hand slapped the side of his face, but it was barely enough to keep him half-conscious. "Bobby! Bobby, get the..." Some grey figure was looming over his sibling, raising what looked to be four arms. That couldn't be right...

With a pang of shock, Sam realized it was Bobby, and the figure didn't have four arms, but two arms and two clubs -

"Dean!" He cried, his voice gargled and slurred.

He blacked out, the last thoughts running through his head were, _this isn't fair, I need to help Dean, he's in trouble, I can't pass out, not now, please..._

Shifting, black waves took over everything. _Dean._

 _No._


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: And here... we... go.**

Sam woke to the sound of incessant beeping. Even after he opened his eyes, the noise droned on and on, refusing to leave him alone. He frowned and tried to make sense of what had happened and where he was. The roof, the sound... A hospital. He wrinkled his nose and sat up, pulling the heart monitor from his chest and the one on his finger he also tore away. Where was Dean? They had been fighting, and his brother had been in trouble. He had to find him and remember what happened.

"Hey, Sam."

He nearly jumped out of his skin until he realized it was Bobby. Bobby. Bobby would have all of t he answers he needed. Sam swung his legs over the edge, only to find that he was in a hospital gown - one that hardly covered what he hoped it would cover. He grimaced and looked around for his possessions, hoping they had left his things in the room somewhere. They had, thankfully. he stood and grabbed his clothes, heading into the tiny bathroom even while speaking,

"What happened out there, Bobby?"

There was a loud sigh. "You mean what happened to Dean? You boys are gonna be the death of me..." Another sigh. "Dean got himself beat by a clown. He's... Bruised, pride's a bit busted up, but they say he'll be fine. No brain injury and only a few broken bones."

Sam almost dropped his pants. He quickly pulled them back up and then followed with the shirt, ditching the hospital gown as he hurried into the main room and peered at Bobby, "Only a *few* broken bones? What... What about the circus?"

"They're off your back."

"Bu- how?"

Bobby stood and stuffed his baseball cap onto his head. "Whatever y' did to Toly changed his mind. He wants to talk to you, when you're feelin' up to it. I said it could be a while. C'mon, lets go see your brother."

Sam didn't argue with that. He followed Bobby as the man led the way down corridors and hallways, practically running over him in his own anticipation. Sam's large frame hung over Bobby's, buzzing over each of the older man's shoulders like an over-stimulated and giant foal. Bobby gave him a look that instantly made him back off. They headed past the nurses station and towards another room, one that Bobby led them to. Sam was all but pushing past the other man by that point, his nerves getting the best of him.

Inside the room Dean was stretched out over the bed watching TV, the controller in his hand as he angrily flipped through channels, apparent irritation and boredom in every inch of his being. His skull was wrapped in bandages around the forehead, his left arm in a cast from the elbow down and one of his legs was elevated, no doubt broken as well. Sam winced in sympathy. "How you holding up?"

Dean flinched, wide green eyes now staring at the younger sibling. The older brother whined deep in his throat and sank deeper into the pillows, "I'm a living pinata." His voice was pitiful. Sam almost snorted, but he held it back, instead putting on what Dean had once called 'puppy dog face'.

"Sorry." Sam inched around the bed, sitting cautiously in the plastic hospital chair. What had happened to Dean was his fault, after all... He had brought The Carnival there, they had tracked him, he had refused to even try to have the tracker removed. It was his fault. "Anything good on?" He turned his head to the TV screen on the wall, then looked back at Dean. One of his eyes was purple and half way swollen shut - Sam did his best not to look at it, but instead at the other one.

"It's daytime TV. What'd'you think?"

"Point taken." He breathed softly, mustering up his courage. "Hey, Bobby? Can we have a minute? Thanks." He flashed a small smile when the hunter dipped his head - and hat - then stepped outside the door, muttering something about going to get coffee. Sam clasped his hands in his lap and leaned forward, resting his elbows against his thighs. Dean saw the change in his posture and frowned.

"This is the Sammy-is-torn face. See? I gotta relearn all the 'faces of Sammy'."

Sam huffed and rolled his eyes. "No, this is the 'Sam is trying to concentrate' face."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Listen, I... What I said... At Bobby's? About hunting? Well, I think..." He pursed his lips. "I can hold my own. During the fight, I remembered things Dad taught us, and, things from The Carnival. And... What you said to Anatoly? I agree. When we met, I wasn't sure what to think. If I was happy, or, terrified. Anything could have happened, but not anything did happen. We're back together, we have a second chance. You were... In a bad place, Dean, and I was living in the aftermath of a real nightmare. I just think that finding each other was the best possible scenario, and I don't know what's gonna happen now, but..." He trailed off, once again trying to find his confidence in the matter.

"...So that's a yes? You'll marry me?"

Sam gave him a death glare, tempted to hit him, but when he looked at all the bruises and broken bones he thought better of that idea. "Ha-ha, Dean."

His brother grinned.

"I wanna hunt with you, man."

Dean somehow grinned even wider. Sam's heart warmed. "Hey, but I got some rules, Sammy. One: Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his pie-hole. Two: Hot chicks at a bar? I get the first go. Three: You don't get to talk about me in Russian. Got something derogative to say, say it to me face - in English!"

"Sure - ti takaya prelesnaya."

Dean's eyes bulged. "Hey - what does that mean? What did you just say about me?"

"Nothing, starshi brat."

"Cut that out, Sam!"

"Whatever you say, muzhchina."

Dean growled and threw the controller, only to have Sam catch it mid-air. Yeah, Sam decided, he had made the right decision.

 **SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN**

" _You were right, Piotr. About The Carnival. I never saw what it really was, but... I don't want to be this forever. All I wanted was to be a showman. Now I can be. In America."_

Sam frowned in suspicion, pacing the floor. He had called Toly only a few hours after he and Dean had their conversation. "Do you expect me to believe that?"

 _"No. But, I wanted you to have my sorry anyways."_

"Your what?"

 _"My sorry."_

Sam cocked his head, confused. "Your... Oh - your apologies?"

 _"Did I not say it right? Angliski... Not my point. I will buy you and your brother tickets to the opening night - The Carnival is changing. We will... Make people happy, make them have a good time. We have changed. I have changed. And we have you to thank for that, Piotr; the best thing that ever happened to this circus was the joining of D'yavol Muzhchina."_

"...Okay. But if you ever hurt anyone again, I swear, I'll..."

 _"Yes, yes, and I would expect no less. Hold me accountable."_

"One more thing. My name is _Sam_."

 **A/N: Thank you all for your support, it has meant... The *world* to me. I will probably write an epilogue, but, this story is coming to a close... So again, I thank you all for everything. Be well!**


	16. Chapter 16

**EPILOGUE**

 ** _Two months later_**

Dean cursed his cast and swore that he would never, ever fracture a bone again. Not that anyone had that much control over life, but if he could help it, he would avoid such a situation at almost all costs... The man sat down on one of the many brightly colored chairs, moving his leg out in front of him and glaring daggers into it. Sam sat beside him, sniffing punctually.

"If I have to wear this cast one more day, Sam, I swear I'll..."

"Okay Dean," Sam said, distracted, and waved a pamphlet in his brother's face. Dean looked unhappier than before, if that was possible. The Winchester brothers had held up at Bobby's for the past few months while they both healed from psychological and physical injuries, and both of the siblings would be forever grateful for the man who had selflessly offered them a place to stay while they licked their wounds. Toly had shut down the human trafficking part of the circus and had began working on his citizenship in America, and if Dean didn't remember all of the horrible things done to Sam, he would have said that Toly was one of the kindest people to Sam. He always had a listening ear when someone needed him to, even Dean had complained to the man about things. It was all very... strange, and took quite a bit of adjusting to.

Still.

Today was the opening night of the new and improved carnival, recently renamed 'Piotr's Traveling Circus'. Sam had been honored, even flashed one of those goopy dimpled smiles. Dean snorted at the memory, but wouldn't deny that the sight of it warmed his heart. That kid was well worth any pain, though he wouldn't admit that out loud, he would never give his sibling any kind of chick-flick leverage over him.

"Hey, Sam," Dean slapped his brother's arm, "Get me popcorn!"

Sam rolled his eyes, "Get your own popcorn."

"No, I don't wanna miss anything!"

"Neither do I!"

"Popcorn, Sam!"

"Go get it if you want it s'darn bad!"

"Sam," Dean whined, looking woefully at his injured leg. Sam's expression morphed resignation,

"Okay, fine. Just this once." He shoved off of the seat and darted up the stairs at a jog, going to one of the stands in the back. Content, Dean looked at the currently empty stage. Lights began turning on, shining down and revealing Toly in a black jumpsuit. The man lifted his arms theatrically, "Welcome ladies and gentlemen, to the opening night of Piotr's Traveling Circus! Get your popcorn and prepare for the wildest night of your lives!" Cheering followed. A moment later, Sam appeared by Dean's side, popcorn in hand. He shoved it against Dean's chest and stared at the stage.

"We begin with Yata Schneider, during the first in several aerial acts!"

Dean clapped, looking not unlike a kid in a candy store. Sam, on the other hand, was somewhat sobered about the whole thing. He had, after all, worked with them for six and a half years. He knew how the act was, but still, this time it was... different. Much different, and he had his brother by his side.

It was a new kind of life now.


End file.
